I'm half a year away
from the here, the now,
the red pink days
of stung lips and crushed
heartsof candy and crayon
declarations of love.
No, in February I'm behind it,
gone away to bask
in the red letter daze
of cologne and headier spices,
back in a time of pumpkin grins
put to shame by wide smiles,
perfect teeth, and the press
of denim Armani thighs.
In March I'll remember the bitter end, but
in February, I am still in love
with an autumn Ramadan:
the starving twilit dinners, the clash
of skin tones in the light of day,
(the last but everlasting) when
you led me by fingers at my throat
and taught me to kiss under a pale sky
vainly embracing the October sun.
I don't know why, but around Valentines when I'm alone, I'm not bitter. I'm nostalgic. ...Damn, but that was a good autumn!
P.S.: For any critiques out there, I more or less define the amateur poet. Help me with flow and clear metaphor, please. Flow, especially, with this one. I think the image and the poem fit together well, but of course any comments/suggestions on that would be welcome, too.