It is not yet fall
it merely feels like it is
a pesky drizzle spoiling
this end of summer ritual
for everyone but me
I feel relieved
cleansed
the Cool wet clinging to me
drawing out of my pores
the last draught of Summer woes
leaving me to feel
drained
unable to fill the space
left empty by it all
the vacancy love brings
and takes
which cannot be restored overnight
or with a change of season
like that of an intense pain
modified out of the passage of time
so what was wrong once
now becomes a naggingly numb
no longer unbearable
yet still there
fading
never gone
the old fire snuffed out
except for the embers
that if I breathe wrong
I might I reignite
or move wrong and rub
I will bring back the throb
to deep pain
I formally felt
maybe I always will
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