HATE FALL
Pumpkin spice can go to hell
Along with storage units and spiders
And stitches that still poke,
Never a last hurt to heal.
Little smooth fingers run along my scars
That showed up one almost-perfect night.
Reminds me with soft eyes that it used to be worse
And digs concealer from her box of pretty.
October breezes begged for quilts,
Open doors, closed screens.
Clean and bare under our long wet hair,
We slept through the end of the movie.