I fell in love in October. His name was Kris and I imagined how lovely it’d be not to have to change my last initial. We fell quick. Like a piercing; a sharp sting turning into a dull throb that would resonate in the back of my mind until it’d eventually subside, leaving behind lovely permanence. He went to church and believed in a way that didn’t judge, but my mother would appreciate. It ended over a lie (his) and fear (mine) that we would never let hurt (us) now.

T was born in October and his name rhymed with mine. He was never going to make a claim in the way the both of us needed. I was nicked in high school and slowly leaked blood for ten years until I finally — mercifully — figuratively — slit my own throat so that I could make it end. He was my best friend and my best friend hated him. I should’ve listened to her.

One October, D gave me a necklace with my name on it. The only thing I asked for and I managed to lose it not long after. Thrice. A fitting metaphor for how things went between us. This felt like a tattoo I wouldn’t let fully heal. I picked picked picked at the inky wounds until I finally finally finally lasered it off altogether. A series of could’ve would’ve should’ves.

(Sometimes I wish I was a kid, man. Because heartbreak feels bad in a place like this.)

In the quiet autumn moments when a gorgeous song tickles my brain to tears, I ruminate on the various contrasts. And sometimes when I squint at the invisible wounds — some gaping, some small, each immense — I miss the fall.

Alas, I’ll keep October for me and my Libra darlings whose blood and memories and harmonies I share. “I love yous” exchanged with actual meaning and warmth for the winter.