Not Just A Season

When I think of the possibility of you and me
being just a season,
of these falling leaves indicating
impending winter,
my tree's branches crack
as it is simultaneously uprooted,
and the hole left behind
is a thoracic crater.

The soil is rich with insect memories
crawling in and out of my brain.
Clicking legs are a ticking clock,
and I want you to fill me up—
can't wait for you to fill me up again.

The rains of spring have no mercy,
and the lurid summer sediments my hole
into a plateau of grief's grains.


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