Thursday, November 26, 2009


The leaves
Dead crispy frozen things
Crumble beneath our feet
And as your hand curls at the small of my back
I am crumbling also

At the whisper of your flannel
Against my hungry cheek
At the cold as it scorches my nostrils
Crackling into my lungs
Carrying with it the memory of burning fields
Mixed with the scent of you

At the way my voice doesn't seem to work anymore
At the way my hand curls
At the crook of your neck

All this as the leaves
make their frozen dead crispy crumbling way
into nothing

We are breaking apart.