There was a moment I was walking over fallen leaves –
the familiar crunch was not so inviting this time –
and I wondered how things that were already dead,
could seem even more dead
as they withered under my trudging footsteps.
He made me tea to calm my nerves and my stomach,
things that ached so often that it seemed unhuman.
We’d get distracted by life and conversation,
and the tea would turn lukewarm.
Now my heart is aching, and I don’t know how to warm it up.
My feet get cold and my hands tremble in this weather.
Skin cracks and sometimes bleeds because
extremities are for bacteria, not humans.
We are not colonies, we are people, and if I learned anything from
Holly Golightly, it’s that people don’t belong to people,
and that we can’t warm each other up in such conditions.
The fall is for dead things, things that abandon their human identity,
things that abandon their past selves to live a life of transcendentalism,
of forgoing worldly goods and worldly love.
I thought love could conquer any thing in the materialistic world,
but love only grounds you to it.
To find yourself in the same nature as the withered leaves
and the lukewarm tea,
is to accept that you don’t belong to people, or to yourself;
you belong to a universe that created you from stardust
and a sense of time that doesn’t limit you to the memories of him.
You are free now. You are the fallen leaves of Autumn.