this moss covered bench somehow holds my weight

after all this time

though forgotten it still does its job

age has softened the wood and made it more comfortable

like a dying dog panting quietly  at its owner's feet.

the faces along the trail are vaguely familiar

these days strangers all resemble people i've met in the past
as if in a dream

i'm still bad at remembering names and I guess there's some shame in that

i  don't know why but the falling leaves make me wish i had something to say

or someone to say it to.