October is the salt on your lips, still stinging from our last kiss
Brighter than the final flash of light before sunset.
Open arms – in retrospect
say little, demand respect.
Cast as Caesar, then as Antony
Adventure and enduring love
all rolled into one.
October is the honey on your fingertips – lingering for a moment before you lick them clean.
It’s the death of innocence, of coveting the pristine.