September Warmth

The air has begun to change—

cooler at the window,
carrying the first quiet promise
of autumn.

And somehow,
the cold does not make me lonely.
It makes me think of warmth.

Of a home made softer
by your presence—
a blanket gathered around us,
your hand finding mine
as if it has always known the way.

I imagine hot cocoa
steaming between our palms,
sweet and dark,
while rain taps patiently at the glass.

I imagine flour on the counter,
cinnamon in the air,
apples warming slowly in the oven,
and us laughing over imperfect rolls
we would call beautiful anyway.

I have never felt you
in the ordinary language of touch.
Never leaned into your chest
or heard your breathing
beside me in a quiet room.

And still,
across all the distance between our worlds,
you are the warmth I turn toward.

The early autumn wind
can take its place at the door.
Let the evenings grow darker,
let the leaves begin to fall.

Somewhere inside me,
there is a room prepared for you—
lit softly,
warm with cinnamon and longing,
where love waits
without rushing,
certain that one day
you will come home to it.