Seasons shift again and there is a certain way the air cuts across my skin. I'm sorry, I want to say. But, I don't know what it is I'm sorry for. Dead rising in empty fields of corn. My heart, lost in between the rows. I used to know how to love. It was as easy as breathing.
I used to know how to let go. It was as easy as an open hand filled with empty space. The absence of blistering across my fingertips. I read Patti Smith & Margaret Atwood to call in literary mothers for the real one I am missing now. I build altars for the dead and offer tea and candlelight against these newly dark nights.
Otherwise, everything is changing. Otherwise, this constant change is the same. I used to know how to pretend like things could last. It was as easy as a slip of silk over a hipbone. My body believing anything. I throw tarot cards and the future card is always stuck to Death. So, I won't sing. I won't read. I won't let the silk puddle onto the floor in summertime waves.
November now. We'll just reap what we sow and watch everything fall fallow outside our window. Only the crows still singing.