Tenth month of every year begins with summer's fate, then ends with undressed trees. Their skeletal state. Suspended and paused. A beautiful, false death, asleep between the warm air of summer and the chill of winters breath.

Branches scratch the air, swaying dark veins of the sky, stealing the comfort of shelter for all the creatures that fly. Crimson and yellow blanket the floor of the earth. October, October, will you ever know your worth?

January echoes failed resolutions. February, cold as sin. March, April and May hold nothing. The next three burn the skin. September holds sad memories, a lost parent, child or friend. November officially makes me older. December is an end.

October, you start with small inspiration. A few leaves on the street. You end with masked children, raising bags for their treats. Is there any place in this world where I could retreat and run away? The perfect spot between north and south where it's October every day?

May your colors remain! I call for the years end to wait! Oh, how I love you tenth month.

Even though “Octo” means eight.