Time is a tricky mistress,
I'm sure of that,
Full tricks up her sleeve.
But the truth is,
I didn't expect this.

I don't put it all on her,
I don't put my feelings all on her.
But I do place the time on her.

Some people grow apart,
Some people grow parallel,
Some people grow perpendicular,
And some people grow together.

I don't know how we grew,
But it feels like we've been growing together for a while.
It seems only our tricky mistress, Time, will tell,
But Time seems to have a thing for surprises

I write but I don't know why.
I never wish to share it with anyone I know.
I don't wish to try and learn to write,
Nor to try and pursue a career.
So why do I write?

Is it really all to send a message?

Poetry is strange sometimes.
In the way that I'll write a poem,
Words flowing freely from my fingertips,
About all of it.
But when I read it now,
It almost feels like its about you.

Except I think you'd like my poetry.

Autumn is just so full of you.
The pale sun, the fading colours, the cold wind.
It's all the same and yet so different.
Autumn is where we met.
But you're not here anymore.
And I'm not the same anymore.

The trace you left in my mind is mirrored in the reality.
In the way I see things.
The way the trees sway as if they didn't want to stand any longer.
The way that faith crumbles to dust like the leaves on the ground.
The way the people walk by in a hurry.
It reminds me of you.

I see you in the way everything seems to be ending,
see us there.

Autumn was our favourite season.
But I think it ain't that anymore.