The brink of winter is upon me
Moving up my leg like a cold hand;
Each chilling fingertip up my spine.

Its breath deep within another lung.

Rain mimicking mist, mimicking rain,
Mimicking some form of purity.

A stranger walks down the wet street
Covered in the style of fall's lineup.

I retreat into the warmth of my house
To sit in the middle of the floor
Wrapped in blanket where loneliness
Covets beside my wrinkled skin
Therein we are both released still,
And I continue to feel the winter chill.