Every year, as fall dances in on colored breezes, we lie in bed wrapped in starched white sheets against the backdrop of a colossal, saw-toothed mountain. My fingers sink into your hair; drifting in and out of dreams; my lips, open on your cheek—I dissolve into the fibers of your skin and move through you like a stiff drink. My hands sliding toward a likely conclusion…you sigh.
The smell of coffee drifts in ocean waves across the room from a stark yellow kitchen down the hall; pink morning light dives and ripples on the wall behind our bodies; of which are juxtaposed in lines and angles of my own delusion. The dried flowers on the dining room table listen anxiously for the murmur of our voices or the quiet rhythmic hammer of our favorite song. They wait and wonder…with tiny cracks and crumbles; just like me.

I roll over toward the window smiling at the willow tree; his green fingertips reach for me and as if to say,

“Its over.”

But it is Fall, and in my mind I remain immobile; affixed to you in undying fashion;

…Idyllic, contented, whole.