They wave at eachother in the breeze of the sunny months. Standing with individual posture, adorned in uniforms of their generations; they are proud.

They brush lightly, en passant, and follow with mutual courtesies of concern and subtle exchanges of interest. They only engage each other when necessary.

They don’t sway far from home. Their travel is routine, with little variation. They remain too distant to connect, but crave that touch, always.

The most stubborn will change. They will sacrifice their pride, familiar nooks, their looks. They will lose themselves in a greater movement, maybe for the better, and maybe not.

They will give it all away for that chance to meet. Down to earth, they will fall into a mess of chance, always conscious of how vulnerable they become when they land in eachother’s arms.

Autumn is for falling leaves, and falling in love.