I will always want
it, especially now that it is gone, all this hits at times like this, the melancholic
autumn when the tips of leaves show their change amazingly beautiful (as is
she) thick with hints of what once was (and might be again), though as the
leaves fall they litter the ground at my feet, but not for me. Everywhere I
look I see aspects of her, the ruby leaves as potent as her pursed lips, the retained
green framing the world in which I see her face, dark eyes, her shape bursting from
every corner, all destined to fade away not the nothing of winter. I ache for
the spring that might follow that, knowing it is not possible, these are the
last leaves of the only seasons I will ever know with her, the chill having
come too early, turning the blooms inside me into brown, leaving me only the
memory to cling to, the rattle of the dying leaves, and the vision of empty branches,
my life swaying with the same wind, as I stumble ahead with visons of former paradise
I will never know again.
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