In the gullet of September you feel a strange constriction
A rust colored hand around your throat
digging into the memory of what you never were
Its nails scraping up dead things
of skin,
of uncertainty from a teenage year
A bellowing illness
once forgotten from walking so far
left to waste under bare feet
until the weather came round
and the conditions laid,
for an autumn gross with the pain of knowing
Wishing you didn’t know
Wishing so hard it accidentally comes true
and haltingly,
sorely,
life is no longer of the present