The door swept open,
Autumn had become a tickle in our throats,
And silent prayers from last year
Collected as dust on the floor
– like lint on plush couches.
Our stories we tell by candlelight.
Aware of what it means to be cautious,
I pressed them into myself
Like flowers in old books.
At last,
Autumn took her chances in arriving early.
The door ajar,
I retraced familiar steps of how I walked up to my bed.
I took the steps as if the floor would cave in.
One day it will reveal the past of ourselves and who has tasted the words such as ours,
In a different time.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s