It’s what we don’t hear… the poetry of the unspoken word… leaves that crush beneath our feet softly as if pressing fingers to lips… shhh…stop talking… listen to her… look at her. We think of it as instinct but humor me… two nights ago I knew not a single feeling of chill in the air.. outside with you I was inside the rhythm of speech within you that had I not adhered to I might have had cold hands… reaching out to hold your hand was not instinct… it came from you but was far from command… it was a connection that through Thinsulate fabrics I felt the beat and pulse of your heart… you sniffled and I looked up… and every street light bounced off every golden leaf still attached to trees which then reflected onto you and I was at a loss for.words… knew not what to say… so I laughed… and continued the connection… listen to me…