asleep in the leaves
i wish he’d been there,
although i’m not sure why
he would have just made me nervous
but at the same time i like the
thought of bragging to people
i used to know about how i have
developed some sort of
personality, some sort of life,
how i have friends now,
how i’ve come so far
(when really, i’m not so far from there
as i’d like to think)
what is it about this season
that sends me back there every year,
without fail turns me cold and harsh and
awkward, turns curves to angles and
creates isolated golden rays stretched
across empty desks
(i don’t want them to see
me this way, i don’t want them to know
how much of that ache i’ve carried
with me all these years)
i huddle over powdered apple cider,
warm but thin and bitter
in my mind i’m turning over memories
disguised as roses,
or roses disguised as memories
velvet, deep red against my pale autumn skin
but full of hidden thorns that stick
in my fingertips when i’m not looking
(i saw him the other night,
he gave me a long, close hug,
we talked in the cool air outside,
he filled the void left four years ago)
then i woke up
i haven’t completely woken up yet.