Stop killing time
and it will stop killing you.

Autumn’s still yawning.
Sunlight seeps between
a few trees and leaves pools
of yellow drool.

A crow nearby looks up,
a black speck
climbs the steps
but then, as a bullet, it’s gone.

Moss, like acne
tiptoeing up the track
around my feet
stains the ground green.

A broken-bone crack,
a twig split in two
joins other brunette arms and legs
strewn everywhere.

Clouds begin to blush
silver above my head.
I hope I get home
before they start to weep.

It feels like a life time ago,
but in reality it has only been a few months.

I remember, the last thing I did before falling asleep
with you in my arms was kiss you,
and the last thing I did before that was make love to you.

I remember, the first thing I did after waking up
with you in my arms was kiss you,
and the next thing I did after that was make love to you.

But that's gone,
it died with the summer.

Tradition dies with love  
and distaste is born with loss.

Sniff sniff, swallow,
to get the feeling you gave me.
Sniff sniff, swallow,
to make myself feel.