The snow kept blooming against the tram window, the sun feigning warmth just long enough for me to believe it. Someone laughed and said we’d remember this forever And left. And I think we will. The air had that sound Like a carnival, like a heartbeat The frost kissing my nose The lights kissing the air. There’s something about the city, That still makes me flinch When soft light hits, When I smell pine When I wait for a train That will never come. and sometimes, when the even

The morning defrosts itself, Arriving without sound. Who wants this? There is no reason for sorrow, and yet it sits beside you, Comforting in a strange way When it dawns upon you that you Are nothing if not woe. Like silk over emptiness, Like a waterfall over oil Like the moon shadowed by her own Night You move through the hours carefully, As if they might tear You wonder if Arachne felt it too that tremor between pride and punishment, the loneliness of creation when the gods

When Fall is just a silhouette, no realer than a fable the air no longer a keeper And chimneys shy away from amber snowflakes And the ghost of cinnamon lingers through every street I have never walked. Stubborn the leaves That stay olive, refusing to rust As if the year cannot bear One more ending. As if red and blue Can never mix. Tragic the sky that Folds into its usual grey The heat, patient and heavy, blinks Waiting for nothing to change. I think about autu

my feet used to ache, running barefoot on pavement still warm from the day, as if time couldn’t catch us if we couldn’t catch our...

It’s not the fall that kills you, Not the way the earth does not even flinch. There is no bargaining, No hand to catch your flightless...