Intolerance will be our demise

I call her Autumn not because it is her name, but because it is her soul. Her hair tumbles down from her head like autumnal leaves; brown and orange, red and oh so beautiful. Her eyes, a gentle shade of brown, love everything and everyone. Her pale, untanned skin is all that autumn stands for: the sun is in short supply and she is beautiful and pale and Autumn.

Her name isn’t Autumn, but if her soul had named her, it would be.

She can see me looking at her and I’m not sure if she is flattered or confused but I will not falter. Autumn is my favourite season, and she is my favourite person.

“Stop,” she will say, a pale pink colouring her cheeks. But I do not.

She holds my face with her soft hands; I can feel her pulse through her fingers.

“Autumn,” I whisper softly against her cheek.

She says she is broken and that there are too many lost parts of her and that I can’t put her back together. What if I still want to try? Why can’t she let me try?