Hi, it's me again, 

can you believe it's 23? I'm 23, 

I remember I fell in love in my glorious 20,

I'm still in love 

I try not to see his photographs

And when I don't, 

I love him even more.

I'm still in love 

I'm still there 

In 20 and a 20,

August, really slipped away like sipping wine, 

September, what will it bring to me?

I had clutched to the hope, 

desperate, adamant, that the other half of it will be different

here I am, as slow as a snail, slithering away, 

dragging my water, dragging my bag of bones, 

dragging my head with it 

oh so heavy, 

that head of hers,

dense and a ball of yarn and 

words written on scratched words, 

the paper underneath tearing away 

beneath all that weight of ink,

Will winter be kind to me?

No, I don't want to go in,

to 24,

24 hours is way too short,

for her neuroses, for the older daughter, 

for a girl about to cry.

God, oh god, I waste your name in vain, 

but are you even there?

I'm, after all, only a speck of dust, 

See me, value me, love me?

Begging all the way through, 

My spirit withering away like the burnt brick leaves, 

Paint me a picture, will you?

She's in a dress in maroon, a beret for the season, 

a scarf? Maybe, only for a statement, 

sweater weather still some miles away, 

an Auburn walkway, 

rusty, crusty, cracking leaves, 

the scent of fall? Can you sniff it? 

And she's falling away, 

not apart, 

in love, dipping marshmallows in hot chocolate,

and her mind? It's quiet, not uncomfortable, just quiet.

In my memories you are always autumn–

golden like when the sun goes down

winds like an airplane sweeping near in noon

leaves scattering like snowflakes in fall.

My first taste of you was autumn,

what a season, I’d thought,

when it’d been too warm for hot tea,

yet too cold for iced. 

When we’d walk the park pathways

watch the squirrels play tag,

look for large piles of swept leaves

to undo one’s futile work. 

Time flew in autumn’s way;

like a plane in the sky–

a crawl and yet a sprint. 

I look at the suitcases by my feet

years of my life packed up in a box

where’d the time go? 

Like autumn you come too late

and like it, I’m gone too soon

but like autumn I know;

that inevitably you will return to me

and I to you.

Orange is the colour of fallen leaves.

The colour of the sky as the sun dips across the horizon blue.

The colour of his scarf. You breathe.

Bright orange, he stands out as he reads over Sunset Avenue.

The seasons change. A leaf brushes across his face.

“Have we met?” The stranger across the avenue says.

“I’m sure we’ve not.”

They fall in line as they talk.

 

“Orange is just a phase,” he says. “Eventually, the skies turn blue, and the leaves become gold.”

“They say they change for the better,” yYou mention. “Or so I’m told.”

“Well,” he quips, “Nothing gold lasts forever.”

Pieces fall into place, in his mind. There’ is nothing that doesn’t make sense with him.

You laugh. “You’re sure?”

(In hindsight, a lot could have been said on a whim.)

 

The days grow shorter, and the nights grow longer.

He wants to become a lawyer.

Each fall, the exams pile in, and he struggles to keep up. “It’s hell.”

You want to be nothing at all. There’ is so much to be done, and so little time to do it, you say.

“Maybe so,” he mentions, picking at an orange leaf from the ground, fraying brown at the edges. “But we might as well.”

“The time will pass anyway.”

 

The leaves wither, and the grass fades into a shade of gold.

Even the strongest branches give way in time.

I don’t mind if you’re not by my side.

If I never see you again, maybe you’ll forget me, after all.

She pulled me into La Petite Maison 

Pouted and begged, "Let's please eat first!"

Her legs skipped steps and made mine jump

the spark in her eyes

the swing in my hands 

carrot cake - my very first time, 

I died and went to heaven,

The salt at the bottom of my caramel coffee 

like the salt in the ocean air,

frolicked all around me

on a cool dawn at the beach to watch the sunrise, 

the way I can feel the fresh coldness yet to be wintry 

on a school morning in October,

like I can smell the winter coming

Cinnamon eyes, liquid, translucent, with a bit of burnt orange in them

I never got to greet them again

but that day, my eyes met his thrice

in a tangerine dream

under a sky that was humming crisp little notes 

from the birds coming home

I wanted to dip my scarlet scarf in a cup of pumpkin spice latte and stain my dress 

and yell, "Look! I think I'm in love"

I let my hands twirl

let my mind dance

asked myself, 

if I really were a mirrorball in a rollerblading club

sad! Don't think of those wild melancholies!

But it reminds me of the orange juice box

bittersweet, 

like falling in love

like leaving school

like saying goodbye to your folks

I'm about to fly

and I feel this sickening sweetness at the bottom of my heart 

bittersweet.

I went back there again

they asked, "Where's your friend today?"

I said, "It's only me today"

and on the train back home  

I wondered if people could tell,

the silent cry in my eyes

the screeching screams in my cheeks

the rock stuck in my throat, 

how the misery comes undone on my face 

when I see people in love.

The sun dips below the horizon of summer

and gives way to leaves of burnt sienna,

the dread of returning to school

seeps through skin like autumn’s chill.

The autumn sun is dimmer, cooler,

it slacks on its oath to mother nature.

The dread of being played as a fool

chills the air before snow brings cool.

The air bubbles with children’s laughter

and streets are swarmed in wrappers,

discarded like summer’s joy and warmth

but contrary to belief, never fully gone.

The hanging tree and lovers’ bridge

are spared not a look despite the itch -

hotlines begin to look understaffed

but you won’t ring if you can still laugh.

Call your brother, tell mama you love her.

They’ll give thanks for you as you do for others.

The lonely chill must rise before falling,

just as you must crawl before walking.