Falling Into Ourselves

The leaves don’t fall,
they flare—crimson, purple, gold,
a final dance with the cold.
Like us,
love unfurls in places we were taught to hide,
no apologies,
no waiting for permission,
growing into the beauty
we always were.

The air snaps sharp,
but carries warmth—
a sweetness thick with longing,
the taste of earth and smoke,
the silence that feels like a breath held too long,
a whisper ready to be spoken.

Your name falls from my lips
like honey,
soft, dripping,
a truth I never thought I could say.
But now I do—
and we don’t need to speak it aloud,
we just know.

The trees crack with gold,
their branches heavy,
yet they stand tall—
preparing to sleep.
The wind whispers through branches,
secrets only the trees hear.
I run my fingers through brittle leaves—
they crackle,
like words I never spoke.

The moon hangs,
a bruise—silver, soft,
against the night.
Its light spills like water,
gentle, patient.
And I shed the skin of who I was,
stand bare like the trees—
stripped,
unbroken,
waiting for the love that finds me.
In their quiet grace,
I learn that I am enough,
that this love—
this fire—is enough.

You hold me
like the night holds the stars—
silent, but endless,
fierce and soft,
like a fire that doesn’t ask permission
to flicker into life,
to burn bright in the cold.