soon
dead leaves, blood-brown, will
crumble to dust beneath my
un-curled toes; september, come
september, come--

my warm skin will divorce your cold wall,
your hot hands, the tiny ridges in your
fingertips, and you will become
a warm shadow - a gated path - a still pulse -
an echo that will reverberate
for years
on every autumn gust

and when i am chilled into stasis
under early october stars, when my feet
carry me home once again,
i will stand behind that pillar
and close my eyes
and stretch my fingers
and whisper into the noise

*i won't forget.