we are the yellow and brown leaves lying near the riverbank, just beyond my windowsill and hiding from sight. we catch the rain drops like little earthy tea cups, but that's just shitty imagery, it's much prettier when you catch the drops on your cheeks. i caught a fever once, it stuck me between reality and nowhere in particular, it destroyed my blood and chest and lips and left me dead for days, yellowing bones and a teetering stone grave. i remembered that night i let out a sigh and watched as it left through your lungs (more shitty imagery, this one of a kiss) and it was the prettiest damn thing i had ever heard, or felt, as your chest rose up just slightly and pressed against my palm. i'll tip toe my fingertips around your hips as the walls creak in the october wind. we jump back into bed, it's too cold to leave (leaf). our autumn will be made up of attics and blankets and tea and probably mittens, and costumes and stories of ghouls and ghosts and Ichabod Crane of course. but like those leaves, we fell to early, and would never last the season.
