We were reading poetry to each other, tearing out the pages and littering the ground until around us were leaves of russet and words. Reciting autumnal poems as our love kindled and sparked like the rush of an oncoming bonfire.
You with your dark black hair, your pale skin and that scarlet dress you claimed was from 1938. You read to me your poems of love and loss, of despair and happiness, of things which I was too young to understand at the time. I was infatuated with you, with those green eyes which shone like stars reflected upon glacial ice, with your hair that contained so many shades of black, with the very essence of you.
Being entwined with you was the pinnacle of my life up to then. I do not recall being much happier than when I was with you.
When the poetry was over, we sat together in silence. Hearing you breath against my chest as I held you in my arms was wonderful. I still swear to this day that I could feel your heart pounding against me.
But all good things come to an end, or so the cliché would inform us. Despite you promising to love me forever, you died and left me mourning. As autumn turned to winter, the icy cold along with my sadness flayed the flesh from my bones, I was left hollow and cold in despair.