Let us celebrate the season of headlights and shiny asphalt.
When our work commutes are darkness both ways, and our skin can’t remember the feel of Sun’s rays, and we’re starting to hate the shortness of days, and we can only attend so many plays, and the streets are glowing with a red and white haze; when you’re choosing your reds instead of rosés, and you always predict what the weatherman says, then I want you to know this wasn’t supposed to be a poem but it started rhyming so I went with it.