It's a grey day outside == the temperature is dropping into the high thirties, and the leaves blow off the trees to make sodden yellow piles in my backyard. Any beauty autumn normally has seems lost in the grey sky, in the mist, in the cold.
It is because of this that autumn is the most romantic time in the world. Not so much because it's tempting to go inside and cuddle with someone over jazz and hot chocolate, but because fall is tempestuous, and asks us to meet it wearing nothing but our starkest selves.
In spring, we hide behind our bright faces, wearing our delight like lambskin, meeting cute and gamboling through light conversations. In summer we discover the needs of our bodies and souls, and we don't know how to articulate them.
In fall, we are scraped raw by the freshly sharp, cold wind. We are stripped from artifice like the denuded trees outdoors. We have nothing but ourselves to offer. We are cold and hungry, shivering and in need.
There is nothing more romantic than the meeting of self to self without the trappings of status, prejudice, and superficial rules.
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