We eat pumpkin pie for breakfast,
whipped cream in spoonfuls,
a thermos of fresh coffee on the bedside table.
The sun plays chords of gold nostalgia
through our antique curtains.
You look like a princess of autumn
with wildflowers intertwined in your braid,
the sunlight catching ruby reflections.
We listen to Taylor Swift, our guilty pleasure,
and pretend we're teenagers again,
writing of trysts and forbidden love and folklore -
mapping out the homes of secret creatures in the forest
so we can make sure they are safe after dark.
We were secretkeepers for the innocent
and for those who needed a second chance.
Now, we're adults and realize the land was
far more cruel than we remember.
We had fooled ourselves into thinking that
the dried blood on forest floors and on our arms
was just part of the make-believe.
We are careful, and unnecessarily cautious now,
and I wish we didn't have to be.
Only when the trees stand close together
do we dare link our arms, leaning on each
others' warm yet anxious bodies.
Only in the acceptance of nature and
comfort of our cabin do we let our dreams
tangle like ivy and omnipresent frost.
The spirits here don't mistake or muddy our love,
nor do they question it.
But the outside world is less of a haven.
For every normal encounter, we come across
even more glaring eyes and whispers.
It took an exile to make us free again,
leaving behind families that never let us live without
requirements to be less vocal about who we were,
so that rumors wouldn't destroy their reputation.
And though we once thought we'd lost it all,
we have started anew, with saffron skies and
champagne kisses and sacred promises.
And if you asked me if I'd do it again,
I'd say a thousand times.
