If October Was a Man

If October was a man, I’d have tried my best to love him more—while expecting less. Every step I took toward him would wear the anklets of excitement.

The sight of him would have made a hidden part of my heart blossom, no matter how the world chose to call it “my fall.” The waiting and longing for him would have never ceased in my soul, as he was the only man meant to make me yearn each and every night.

The way his eyes were soft and glistening with little tears—he knew I was standing before him.

His touch on my skin would have felt like the end of longing, and the beginning of something even deeper.

I knew he wouldn't last with me forever. But I didn’t mind becoming the bride of melancholy while being a daughter of ecstasy. The kind of melancholy where my soul found peace instead of chaos.

Such silence had never felt like home before him.

Letting my heart undress itself in his presence was something I didn’t think twice about.

I was held in his arms, while he ached—knowing those arms wouldn’t be there the next moment you reached for them with silent tears.

I was his, and he was mine—but something didn’t want us to be together for more than a while.

So we just waited, and waited for every season to pass, only to meet again—even if briefly.

He was called fall, but he was a rise for my soul.

He only became fall the moment the world snatched him from

my arms.