I see you glancing at the brush,
But our bristles don't hold paint the way they used to
And for all the folly in our atmosphere, I am sorry
I know I'm the one who exhaled the most

Remember, your father told you,
"We run the most standing still,"
But my stars have remained perpetually frozen
Since my love ceased blushing your alabaster skin

If you cinch the tourniquet too tightly,
To summer's dismay, I may not heal by autumn
And whether you whisper treasons of the universe or not,
My anchor's still aweigh by first light

Broken words taste bitter upon my tongue,
And it's becoming clearer and clearer
That you were my road to Arcadia
But, as I am prone to do, I derailed us both

I see you glancing at the brush,
But our bristles don't hold paint the way they used to
And for this achromatic atmosphere, I am sorry
I know I'm the one in black and white

I woke up and forgot it was October
On the front steps, I shook a little less
Than the last time we decided to rush
A season, shaking branches and wearing
Sweaters with the sun beating down
Tomorrow, it still won’t feel like home
But I am learning that nothing does
Except for autumn and that first cool morning
Where the air smells like it did when I was ten
Before I knew that life would ever feel as unreal
As it does now, standing on one side of a door
Stirring up the courage to pull it shut

The first days of fall are always warmer than I remember. It just takes one cold morning to make me want the glare back. Now I'm looking for any reason to go outside before dusk begins to swallow afternoons. I'm checking the mail on a Sunday. I'm carrying a broken lamp to the shed. I don't miss July and its quite seethe. I miss the beginning. I miss not knowing when it would end. It's a slice of sponge cake, a half-erased underline left behind in a book that I can't put down. I'll go inside and read it until the pages begin to curl. My nails were made for digging into palms. I only ever want to stay when I know it's time to go.

summer heat
beating up from sticky asphalt
     has dissipated
autumn cools the world
bathing us in its solid shade
under an umbrella
     of breezy rustling colour:
as summer leaves
autumn leaves
arrive

the homesick one looks up to ask
"please, when do we go back?
for tears will quickly do their task,
will carve another track"

the knowing one just turns and smiles,
explaining once again,
that back is so much more than miles,
that now has become then

the homesick one, though, doesn't hear
the answer, for the thousandth time,
she wants to turn a deafened ear
so may the truth well chime

the truth that home is far away
that there will be a thought of when,
until that longed-for summers day
when she is home again

that home forever grows
the knowing one reminds once more
as sure as anything she knows
it's right there in her core

yet homesick one still asks and calls
relentlessly for home
she feels imprisoned by the walls
she wishes she could roam

she begs and screams for unity
for just one little trace
of love, of that community
where she had found her place

the knowing ones exterior cracks
the smile cant further hold
the tears now finally run their tracks
and masks begin to fold

and suddenly they all burst out
my knowing, homesick tears
of longing and I almost shout
something to never reach their ears

I want to scream how this is wrong
that I feel empty without them
that where my love and joy will stem
is the home where I belong

I dont, of course, I never would
the knowing one reminds me soon
that home I know is just as good
and still I long for come next June

I sit and look out the window
at expensive houses and trees
two seats just for me
and the umbrella between my knees

I do not anticipate rain anymore
father sun, that face of God
flashes a smile on a spot
of the road where all lie shot

in the chest by arrows of love
from summer's bow, this cupid,
dogs wag their tails in humid
heat, someone spits out fruit pits.

heavy clouds of thunder still
linger in the humming air,
filled with noise and
Jesus' voice, whispering:
"You're almost there."

My summer haze.
You exist
as salted scrunchies,
Freckled thighs,
Whiskey tongue.
You exist,
Right?

By Fall,
I know it to be true.
My autumn girl.
I look into her
tasting wet leaves,
pine and cinnamon.
Her body still
hot as August sun.

Fireplace feet,
wobbly knees under fleece.
Suddenly,
you are Christmas wine,
Snowflake tears.
Teeth never clattered,
Hands never cold.

I can’t see spring.
Perhaps that’s where it ends.
Maybe it never was.
Still,
I dream of you
And still,
I wonder
if you dream too.