My face is assaulted with the shivers of the autumn wind (unrelenting and quiet, brisk sandpaper in motion) and I am shaking all over, fingers rustling like leaves, seeing your footsteps scatter as I try to breathe
Today, poetry is in my bones-- words reverberating against flesh, holding up my body through ribcage and skull. I am a skeleton of sonnets. If you were to cut me open, verse would flow out: I stain pages with ink-splot blood.
The kettle catcalls me from across the room, liquid love cradled in its hollow stomach. Poured into a mug, it is joined by a tasty tea-leaved companion. Together they smile, content in the morning.
I am drawn to the twisted branches of the apple tree beside your left cheek-- arms intertwining, gnarled with age and wear, splattered with the paint of the sun. The tendrils are fingers grasping, hands interlocking, against the pale sky.