Autumn

There’s something about autumn.

I’ve never seen it.  It’s not in the trees.  The leaves don’t explode in riotous reds and glorious golds to die such magnificent deaths, descending to earth where they rattle on the concrete when the wind blows or crunch under our sneakers.  

At least, not on this enchanted island of perpetual summers.

I’ve never seen autumn, but I feel it.  

I know when it’s here because the dying season somehow, quietly, inspires me; it seeps into my bones, it echoes in the loneliness of my hollow skin.  

The inspiration is so much stronger now, so heartache becomes poetry, and the journals are bloated with prayers for warmth- all are signs of weakness.

There is a little life left in me, but the effort it takes to give birth to the tears exhausts me.  So instead I wear myself out in self-reprimand.  

I’ll fade, proud.

Like an autumn leaf.