the tears i have cried for you
would have developed
all the photographs
i'll never get to take

isn't it funny
how
autumn
brings out
the brightest
and
most diverse
colors
smells
sounds
despite the fact
that it signals
death
in the slow
way
that stains
red
the green of
life
and brings it
to its knees
on the
colder
harder
browner
ground

On a day like today
(when the sun is so sunny
and your smile is so bright
and your jokes are so funny)
it all feels alright.

I am responsible for
the words that I say,
not the words you
dane to hear.

it's a lot like
when you're
picking berries
all day
and enjoying
the bursts of
**** and
sweet
on your tongue
when
all the while
the dark
red juice
is running
down your
wrists and
quietly soaking
the tips of
your fingers
and they sort
of just silently
adapt
and
accept this
foreign but
familiar
deep
red stain
so set within
the ridges and
ripples
indistinguishable
from the actual
grooves
and
pink of your
real fingerprints
that
you don't
even notice
when it
finally
starts to
fade
away

The windows are open
and the curtains
have been
blowing softly
all day
toward me as if
they are reaching out
for a hug.

The windows are open
and the fan
has been
slowly cooling
the warm autumn
air as it
drifts lazily in
toward me almost
as if
it is looking for
a last embrace.

The windows are open
and the cicadas
are crying
or laughing
or playing
or whatever it is
that a cicada
does
when it sees that
the windows to
a very strange place
are open.

The windows are open
and the goldness
of the sun
makes me sad in
a way that
squeezes my heart
and puts
a sort of
lump
in my throat
and
the coffee I brew
doesn't help
and
the goldness
just saturates
more
and
more
and even more
until
I can't hear
the cicadas
or hear the whisper
of the silky curtain
caressing itself
or the blades
of the fan
trying to slice
the sadness in
the air
before
it
gets
to me.