I felt the energy
across the room,
like wind
taking shape
on an autumn night
in New York.
Unsettling,
unspoken,
broadcasted
to the naked eye,
yet intimate enough
to be felt
before it was named.
Summer was still lingering
at the edge of the glass,
warm on the skin,
sweet on the mouth,
still pretending
it had not begun
to leave.
But outside,
The city knew better.
The trees had started
their golden confession.
The air had sharpened
just enough
to make closeness
feel necessary.
The moon leaned over
the buildings,
watching September
unbutton the last heat
from the evening.
And then,
as the season turned
its face toward fall,
it recognized
the moment:
fall warmth.
Not summer’s illusion
pretending it could stay
forever,
but autumn’s invitation
to come closer,
to soften,
to sit by the fire
and tell the truth
with our bodies
before our mouths
could interrupt.
There was something
invigorating
in its persuasion,
a goodness of love
tapering the last romance
of summer
into something richer,
deeper,
more deliberate.
Autumn in New York
does not beg
for beauty.
It arrives
with amber light,
wool coats,
soft jazz,
steam rising
from street grates,
leaves turning
like old secrets
finally ready
to be told,
and the kind of longing
that knows how
to behave itself
until the door closes.
Then love begins
to dance.
By the fireplace,
near decadent delicacies
and scrumptious delights,
passion becomes
less performance
and more presence.
Two souls
lighting the room
from within.
Two bodies
remembering warmth
as a language.
Two hearts
finding their rhythm
in the sacred hush
between summer’s farewell
and winter’s approach.
And there we were,
increasingly dynamic,
tender,
unrushed,
as if autumn itself
had leaned in
and whispered:
This is what happens
when love
finds its way
home—
© 2026 Sherley Delia. All rights reserved.
