someday, autumn will stop

reminding me of Dublin snow,

your black fleece beanie, my

faux fur boots. Buskers’ silk

voices sing Ed Sheeran on street

corners in Temple Bar: “I’ve

found a love for me”; cobblestone

slow dances as tourists rush by on

slippery sidewalks, ready for dinner

or overpriced drinks. Icy mist sprays

subtly on cheeks flushed pink while

Christmas lights glow yellow gold

on Grafton street, casting shadows

over faces on All Soul’s Day. Lilted

Our Father’s mumbled under the thunder

of angry church bells. My hands in your

coat pockets, just to keep us warm.

Squeeze fingers tightly, graduation

doesn’t mean goodbye. But it does

mean home. My home. Hamburgers

and milkshakes in white hot southern

sunshine. No shouts of slainté or

shots of whiskey on dark wooden

bar stools. I’m out of place among

the stars and stripes, missing your

home instead: craving stories of rural

County Mayo and its cold, untouched

sea. I see you in all shades of green grass

and golden city lights, hear whispers of

you in crisp winter winds, taste your

flavors in thirsty gulps of guinness pints.