Flames at the tips

We walked under maple trees and
The dewy autumn leaves were plastered
Thick and heavy like wet newspaper strips
Folding and praying for their papier-mâché
Tourniquet to hold our splayed limbs
Together so this moment lasts just a little while longer

But the leaves will dry,
The winds will pick up,
For this is the season
We chose to plant our love.

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