Vaguely aware of the piles of thought
Inside my autumnal head;
Smelling reminiscence rot;
Feeling a little mislead.
I am somewhat cold
On the usually warm bench;
Almost missing your arms,
Making my heart wrench.
Spring cleaning was ere long due.
Clearly, while leaving leaves behind, you
Blew them really far apart,
Scattering my heart
To the wind.
Now I’m forever cluttered,
Trapped in autumn.
Photo by Autumn Mott Rodeheaver on Unsplash
Short Stories 