I feel the sadness creep back into my bones and I whimper.
All of me crumples to the floor like a fallen autumn leaf,
trapped by the asphalt and the air,
with the impending fate of being trampled on by wandering feet.

I can do nothing but watch
and wait
as every bit of my being succumbs to this plague of past participles.

I long to be saved, to be rescued,
but when your savior is your victim,
       when your hero is the fallen,

it's a lot like trying to write with no ink.