Love is a Place, by Metric
Brittle leaves stirred by the air,
Papier-mâché the streets.
Warm is the sun; cool, the breeze,
The haphazard weather never agrees.
Roses bloom upon her face
and clouds billow in the skies.
Spider webs of frost cross latched windows,
which oh so quickly close.
In this moment she tries to live;
a person lost without place,
always content to be coming from
a land devoid of anyone.
Cocoa and smiles warm her face.
A quick glance back down from the skies
brings an autumn feast for keen, young eyes:
‘Twixt ‘tween two marvels she contemplates.