Missing Autumn

Is it January? Then I should be

expecting spring, not missing autumn,

I guess. There are memories caressing my

messed-up mind, still, they cruelly haul it back from beloved

states of unconsciousness. I had been tranquil, so tranquil

before I began passing my days breathing

against chilly window-panes, missing autumn.

The snow lies iridescent, almost pretty, but I

do not want my world to glimmer, I want

it to burn and make me unlearn

restriction on carpets woven with golden leaves.

I am scraping paint off ancient furniture, missing autumn.

Recollections rattle reverberantly. I remember imbibing

moonlight, blissfully. I remember a dance beneath

capricious november rain. I remember how that beauteous smile

blossomed on your lips, too tender to survive winter.

Perhaps, it is not autumn I miss.