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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