His russet head in my lap, a red leaf turns summer's sun-baked page for me. I recite my hot, dry poetry about sunsets and sadness and the adultery of August to him.
Every season I fall for every season, but will this fall—Mr September through December—blaze for me?
He did. I did for him. Then, sigh, leaves and the harvest dream of together forever fluttered to the ground. A brittle stick of a boy was revealed.
Icy hand in mine, I allow winter's embrace. He is a white sugar daddy. Though I will never melt as I did for fall, I slowly warm to this frigid gentleman in an Armani suit. His pockets are full of silver. Soon, there are diamonds on my fingers, ermine around my shoulders.
Mr January to March is who he is, and I'll take him for as long as he shall be.
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