I hate cold the most

You waited until early November.
And wore your black jacket, the one I loved.
Breath froze around your face and made the words
coming out of it seem more important,
more permanent as they hung in the air.
Like exhaust adding to the ubiquitous smog.
You spoke of love like you were unsure
of it's existence. I hated that.
You mentioned duty, loyalty, commitment,
obligation, service, station, obedience, and respect
with your eyes. I hated that.
Like a painting of ourselves we stayed locked in
separate roles, unbreakable.
Or so it seemed at the time.
I watched your back through the window
as it moved down the stairs to your car.
You watched the ground as if the leaves were
judging you.
Maybe you looked back, once.
I don't remember.
Only the fragrance of damp orange leaves
and dark wool coats.
And the cold.
The cold, I hate that the most.