it's no wonder that the first hint of autumn manifests as tidal waves of conjured memories, as if I've forgotten that the shallow shores of my conscious existence are directly connected to the skull-crushing volumes of water farther out.
The changing of the atmosphere is spinning clockwise, whipping the depths and displacing everything that hasn't seen the light of my attention in about a year.
In the tempest is you
with flailing arms and water in your lungs, because you're dying.

Not you, (i don't even know what your life is now) but your memory at least.

And I'm watching you spin down the drain and not really caring where it leads,
as long as it's not deep into my episodic memory again.