I am your fall.
I fuel the sugary sap within you, the pulse of you across your limbs, the oxygen you create as you take my toxic air within and breathe out the impurities of me.
I fill your mind with a thousand leaves, brightly and brilliantly colored...and then, soon, I become a memory...flicked from your fingers to lie at your feet in tiny shades that mirror sunrises and sunsets...and lay there, quietly...until somebody else walks by, crushing tiny spines and crackling in the crisp of a season.
Or perhaps gathered into handfuls and put into a burn-pit...smoldering like the way I burn for you. Inhaling a scent only known in an October or November. This is the scent of a harvest time, when a world is turning...a decay that is beautiful and quickening.
It is the way the sun shimmers in the branches and remaining leaves of a treeline that was once all shade...like a whittled down forest that loses its protective coverings...stick-figures where once full bodies stood.
I want to cling to you, clutch you. I want to open up like an unfurled leaf craving the sun...veins of me rich with your light...
But I fear I am soon seasonal...in a bit of blaze I tumbleweed down and join the forest floor...but I am grateful as I gaze upwards at your arms, knowing I was once embraced...and perhaps I can return some day in a spring that reminds me of the endless season that I find in you.
