Autumn Lovers

Original Poetry
He was a little like the autumn;
bitterly cold and brutally
incomprehensible.
He promised great things:
beauty,
a fire of warmth in
the darkness that shrouded
us
like a blanket.
But now I see
he was really
a winter’s night.
Cold; dark.
So cold, you grow numb
to it.
Numbness becomes
pain.
And soon
it became
a hell of a lot of
nothingness.
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