If it was autumn forever the ribbions tied to the banister of your porch would still be dancing on a vibrant breeze. And in the door step stair well where i left mumbling ghosts of uncerctainty, they might still wail at three a.m. when the cool night air cast me to your warmth.

But winter came and inbetween the microcosom fabric of those ribbions ice crystals grew and shattered, winter glass shreded all the pretty things i left. The ghosts prefered the chance of you but as winter fell and you became more transparent than them, i guess they hitched themselves to the moon, just trying to visit something beautiful.