It struck me during this spooky season how poetry is always set in the springtime when things are pretty and blooming. But what about an autumn love? Written in the spirit of halloween, what follows below is still a love poem, but one more comfortable with thorns than roses...
I’m feeling love in some October way, the bleeding sway of a concave chest that drips itself on the cement. I try to time my mismatched steps to the design, leave behind a sign, liquified petals that line the path. My hallow laughs form a soundtrack against the beats of stained sneakers, I’ve been in bleaker places before but nothing that’s left me with such an open sore, nothing that cuts in a way that begs for more. Gory, isn’t it? Not like the love stories you hear in February, with cupid and stupid grins. If blushes creep in here, they stay close to the floor, slither in through closed doors with fangs that bite into sunken cheeks. Same disease but different symptoms, the window won’t sing treble sounds from cast pebbles, it screeches against a branch’s outstretched nails. A tell-tale, if you will, I smile at the ghost on my window sill and clutch at the veins and arteries growing cold in autumn’s breeze.
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