october has hands.

October can't tell between new friends and potential enemies,

reminding you that jerseys only last as long as the weather

and warm colors compliment cool eyes.

October breaks apart your summer playlists

til you can barely listen to them.

She remembers the hands that got missed too many times

and the post-tears that followed them to bed.

She wears sleeves,

with hearts that get worn on them too soon,

because the weather makes you vulnerable

and first impressions are the culprit of her smashed fingers.

But her first impressions become new shotgun riders.

She knows how to say your name the way your parents intended it to be said.

The wood still burns,

she still searches for hands to hold,

and the CD is scratched 

but the music still plays,

because October smells like a few good months of memories

and regurgitates a list of last year's mistakes

while falling in love with books-gone-hollywood 

and karma that never found you.