Année
I loved you in October. The trees were dry on their branches and so were we, in the little specks of humour scattered between us. People decked themselves up for Halloween and I did too, with wispy dreams of fireplaces, snow-clad villages and old books that smelt of comfort. Time sailed its paper planes in the air and I watched, watched as you soared and soared on them, higher and higher. I dreamt in November. It was a month of winter's tentative entry, unlike the proud march which it had discarded in defeat to warmth so many years ago. You were still high above, and I was too, but lost in fantasies, of wooden cabins in lonely forests and whispered conversations. The chill evaded my touch, just like you, both free spirits, destined for greatness. I closed my eyes and longed for both. The winter for its cold, and you for warmth. The irony of it all mocked me through my wardrobe of winter wear. I prayed in December, when the lights lit up the city and even the winter's white c...