OverTheRainbow

fall isn't what you think it is.

fall isn't

pumpkin spice lattes and

smoky bonfires and

cinnamon candles and

your new maroon woolly cardigan that was on sale for

Thanksgiving or Halloween or whatever

we weren't even close to fairy tales. but

your hands clasped in mine felt like satiny silk

on a wedding dress made for

this warmth that pricks my heart full of

blood and oxygen that tastes of you

every second I think

this is the oldest I have ever been

this is the youngest I will ever be again

this second is gone                      this one too

tell me I cannot drink the air; 

yet the smoke on the horizon curls like a finger, 

inviting me to taste February in the wind 

and know time is running out 

as the days turn to fire for retribution

and the nights turn to ice for revenge,

i watch the smoke curl over the mountains

grayish-pink sunsets smelling of apples and your grandfather's attic

and here i thought we were all going to die someday;

incorrect;

our corpses (sacks of what used to be our livelihood, exhales of what used to be our lives) will