It was fall when I fell for you,
Gazing at hillsides of varied hue--
Red-headed girls in saffron dresses
Coming to give me hugs and kisses,
Moving in droves from outcrops and ridges
Crossing the valleys and brooks without bridges.

You, of all, were most fair,
Your hair,
Piled like clouds at sunrise,
Passion and excitement fierce
Burning in gray-blue eyes,
Particles of light aglow
Surrounding you in mist
That totally envelops me
Every time we kiss.

Now, you tease me like a breeze
And hear what I don't say--
I throw my troubles in your fire
They're gone,
And joy remains.

I’ve been falling.
I’ve been feeling the cold,
It breezes through my bones,
And the very moment it chills me,
Your warm embrace fulfills me.
All I can see are the colors falling through the air,
Each holding memories I can’t get back, it’s not fair.
It doesn’t matter how cold it gets,
Home won’t fail to heat me from the inside.

think
a thought
that flutters to the ground
like a crumpled butterfly.

are you the wind?
because you push me along, far off
into the distance across the
abyss.

fall away
fall to you
fall for me
fall down all together now

until the ground becomes the sky
and
i see that all your words are lies

I am sad again, but I have no idea why.
Living keenly with an idea of what I want out of life.
My favorite season, autumn, is upon us.
And my writing is frequent and fulfilling.
So why am I sad again and why am I an orange juice, spilling?

I miss the days where drugs meant fun. Where ridicule was a pasttime.
Between best friends, and Windows didn't force updates.
The Internet was an escape around which Identity was ignored.
You were your username,
and you were too full to be bored.

I am sad again despite selling two poems to a couple patrons
during an open mic night I frequent.
I hadn't been much, chose instead to spend
my time writing and feeling sorry for myself.
Now that I'm out again and re-befriending familiar faces.
It almost feels like belonging is as lost as context between the spaces.
I'm stark raving sad and I've only just arrived.
One year finally after the middle-age of twenty five.
If I make it until January consider me your unlucky kin.
A day without morbidity, how long has it since last been?

Too long;
So long, too.