That I’ll get better, that you’ll get better, 

That we’ll really try this time and stomp down rain-slicked streets like we own them 

Instead of scurrying through desolate alleyways like frightened children 

Hopelessly lost and without umbrellas, nails bitten, and nerves shot 

Our way back home lost the second we stepped out of the door 

 

Breathe in the scent of wet cement, the smell of broken stone melancholic and familiar 

Something ancient and unsophisticated, moulded to fit the world around us 

It’s the scent of stations carved into cliff sides, walls saturated with impatience 

Of endless tunnels that snake deeper into the earth each day 

Each step taking us further into somewhere we don’t want to go 

 

It’s autumn now and everything is on fire, the trees, the sun, the light behind our eyes 

My throat that burns raw with words that I’ve left unspoken, voiceless 

Choked up like hands wrapped around my neck, golden and unyielding 

My voice only able to whisper out the same platitudes, stuck on a single word 

Repeating it over and over again and becoming less true each time 

 

The smell of autumn is the smell of leftovers of summer, forgotten on the table 

Of slowly, sweetly spoiling fruit languishing on the ground, overripe and cold 

Of wet, rotting leaves that haven’t been cleared out in years 

But the rot underneath doesn’t make the fiery overcoat any less remarkable 

It’s just a matter of not moving a single thing to maintain the illusion 

 

It’s a season of desolate skies and restless seas, of seeking warmth where there is none 

Of huddling in underpasses from another shower of rain, shaking and barely held together 

The pieces only connected by wet clothes and aching lungs, sensations where thoughts flee 

Grounding myself in the sight of stones and walls and cracks in the sidewalk 

Looking out into the mist and rain with you, our breaths rising as fog against the grey 

Splashes of vermillion that curl up on your cheeks like ghostly brushstrokes 

 

The thing about seasons is that no matter how lovely they are, there’s a cynical feel to them 

They’re both doomed to die and doomed to live, repeating over and over again 

I wonder what that would feel like, to die and be renewed each year 

Instead of fading away, slowly but steadily and watching the cycle repeat 

The leaves don’t grow back, they just fall slower and stay dead on the ground 

 

It’s another beautiful year 

And I continue to fade 

So, will you do me a favour 

And live for me, let me see the world through your eyes 

I think it might be a lot more beautiful that way