A Letter to September

Our lipstick stained cigarettes and empty bottles of Yellowtail were a sign summer was coming to a close. My feet were no longer being burnt by the rooftop's tar and the chlorine scent in my hair was barely lingering. The close of the season brings with it an unexpressed mourning. My innards begin aching and longing for a time long past. Craving pale, adolescent mornings spent in over sized knits smoking stolen tobacco... The sun through the leaves still gives me great waves of nostalgia. Their shadows dance across my face and tell me a story just the same as the Indonesian puppeteers did centuries ago. Time could stand still here, and I would be okay. With a green carpet still beneath our feet, I anticipate the broken confetti of late fall leaves. Ember leaves rising, and black branched trees to come. Another year will pass before I feel this again. A crisp wind touches my cheek, and the tears swell. Autumn's air is unchanging, but I am not.

photo by: matt cosby