Harvest Night

It’s November, when the crops are ripe. Even the wind smells sweet this time of year and my memories are as strong as ever. I remember my lover and I would find each other in the dead of the night and feel alive in each other’s company, under the inky autumn sky. But he’s gone now, only a sweet memory to me.

Still, I can almost pretend he’s here with me as I sit at the edge of the pond where we used to meet. If I close my eyes, I can almost hear him whisper in my ear. He was everything to me, my sun, moon, earth and stars. And as I walk slowly around the pond, staring at the sky’s liquid reflection like we used to, I can imagine him by my side, holding my hand and humming a melody.

Absurdly, I continue walking in circles around the pond even as midnight approaches and passes. Because, even though he’s gone, I am content to play pretend through the night. I look up at the moon, radiant and silver. I can feel him beside me still.