Warming Up To The Fall

With each candle that he picks up to smell,

I wish that I am the curve of the jar that fits perfectly into his hand

as he scrunches up his nose

to the scent of bergamot waters.

His fingertips stroke my bare back,

the part that my dress doesn’t cover,

and plays with the end of my ponytail.

It tickles, but feels warm

like the touch of the sun back home.

It tickles, but I keep quiet

because I don’t want him to stop.

I pretend to listen to the conversation at hand,

but all I think about is his on me.

Our short walk is made long by the cold

and my high heels.

He takes my shivering left hand,

sandwiched between his,

and rubs back and forth, creating friction—

between our palms and our hearts.

Then the rain comes,

but it is the warmest shower

I’ve ever been under.

As he wraps his arm around me

with an umbrella in his fist

covering both our delicate heads

from the downpour,

I feel something that I haven’t felt in months,

and it comes rushing back to me as I lie awake in bed,

thinking about him again.

Thinking about how unaligned we would be

if he was lying down next to me

because of how much taller he is.

Standing at the front door,

under the porch light,

he hugs me hard,

like I am about to slip away.

Would he want me to stay?

Just a few moments before,

we are sitting on the couch,

wanting to be closer,

but being a little too afraid to make any moves.

His arm is around me again,

and my head is rested on it.

Our fingers are intertwining,

and I want them tangled.

He leans his head on mine

and I feel drunk without having a drink.

On the car ride to the party

he placed his hand on my thigh,

and the feeling lingers.

It seems that I am warming up to the fall season.

My emotional turmoil has strength,

brewed by hot sabotage.

Those bubbles cool down

when he tells me something sweet,

entrapping me back in the memory

of his fingertips at the edge of my spine,

as if he was reaching for

my heart on the other side.