i take a step back into myself  as the last golden brown

leaf crumbles into dust upon the delicate caress

of your callused, cracked fingertips.


you will find me once again, breathing down

your neck and into your ear, creating ripples

of chills that freeze down each vertebrae of your spine.


adaption is a process that you can never seem to catch

when the cool spring breezes that once warmed your smile

have given way to the morning dew frozen now into

frost.