They called the boy Leaves even
though it's the last thing she'd
ever want him
to do.

He was Fall and
Orange and awkwardness mingled,
Thawed with numbers and
Sciences too grand
In a body too small for
his mind.

His cold fingers traced
fireflies, midair, as he calculated
the distance between each
heartbeat and the last
time would stop still
to let her
hope;

Frigid weather and
Yellowing afternoons lined up
Behind the silent wishes she'd make
Shivering with adrenaline and
Waiting for the Computer man
To convert her endorphins
into a mathematical embrace.

But all the Leaves would Fall
and leave the trees bare
and cold, cold-
She'll be cold and
bear three seasoned leaves
On a vest on her chest
to mark the time she
Fell for Leaves

But Leaves won't fall
for her anymore,
no,
Not at all.