That I’ll get better, that you’ll get better,
That we’ll really try this time and stomp down rain-slicked streets like we own them
Instead of scurrying through desolate alleyways like frightened children
Hopelessly lost and without umbrellas, nails bitten, and nerves shot
Our way back home lost the second we stepped out of the door
Breathe in the scent of wet cement, the smell of broken stone melancholic and familiar
Something ancient and unsophisticated, moulded to fit the world around us
It’s the scent of stations carved into cliff sides, walls saturated with impatience
Of endless tunnels that snake deeper into the earth each day
Each step taking us further into somewhere we don’t want to go
It’s autumn now and everything is on fire, the trees, the sun, the light behind our eyes
My throat that burns raw with words that I’ve left unspoken, voiceless
Choked up like hands wrapped around my neck, golden and unyielding
My voice only able to whisper out the same platitudes, stuck on a single word
Repeating it over and over again and becoming less true each time
The smell of autumn is the smell of leftovers of summer, forgotten on the table
Of slowly, sweetly spoiling fruit languishing on the ground, overripe and cold
Of wet, rotting leaves that haven’t been cleared out in years
But the rot underneath doesn’t make the fiery overcoat any less remarkable
It’s just a matter of not moving a single thing to maintain the illusion
It’s a season of desolate skies and restless seas, of seeking warmth where there is none
Of huddling in underpasses from another shower of rain, shaking and barely held together
The pieces only connected by wet clothes and aching lungs, sensations where thoughts flee
Grounding myself in the sight of stones and walls and cracks in the sidewalk
Looking out into the mist and rain with you, our breaths rising as fog against the grey
Splashes of vermillion that curl up on your cheeks like ghostly brushstrokes
The thing about seasons is that no matter how lovely they are, there’s a cynical feel to them
They’re both doomed to die and doomed to live, repeating over and over again
I wonder what that would feel like, to die and be renewed each year
Instead of fading away, slowly but steadily and watching the cycle repeat
The leaves don’t grow back, they just fall slower and stay dead on the ground
It’s another beautiful year
And I continue to fade
So, will you do me a favour
And live for me, let me see the world through your eyes
I think it might be a lot more beautiful that way
