October, as it gets colder. Memories stirring. Colored leaves and wind. You said the room I rented was a monk's cell. I thought I'd probably die there. I played my sad music for you and you played yours for me. Listening for your scratching. We kissed in the harsh wind, my hands inside your black winter coat for the first time. Staggered by holiness, expecting to be taken up, but allowed/condemned to stay. We drank iced tea from the carton, ate chocolate and ice cream, upon my mattress on the floor. So rich, without money. Because I was parched and starving, I soaked you in through every pore, devoured you entirely. My Spirit's eyes fluttered - a bird having crashed into a window - and took flight again. Glorious soaring heights and then, of course, the fall that should, but doesn't quite, ever kill you. Not completely.
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