Missing Autumn

Is it January? Then I should be expecting spring, not missing autumn, I guess. There are memories caressing my messed-up mind, still, they cruelly haul it back from beloved states of unconsciousness. I had been tranquil, so tranquil before I began passing my days breathing against chilly window-panes, missing autumn. The snow lies iridescent, almost pretty, but I do not want my world to glimmer, I want it to burn and make me unlearn restriction on carpets woven with golden leaves. I am scraping paint off ancient furniture, missing autumn. Recollections rattle reverberantly. I remember imbibing moonlight, blissfully. I remember a dance beneath capricious november rain. I remember how that beauteous smile blossomed on your lips, too tender to survive winter. Perhaps, it is not autumn I miss.