leaves on benches
new clothes and books and pens and loose leaf paper
and lamps and rugs and other fifteen dollar furnishings
pretending last year never happened and we've always been friends.
cigarettes never tasted so good.
perversly dark skin hidden again under fabric.
, not coats, not bare arms.
golden sunlight through the branches
the juxtaposition of contentment
as we rest after summer
but try to expend all the energy that will only make us petulant, come winter
october 31 and the last revel
season premieres that seem like they could be novel and fascinating, before we grow jaded again and realize it's always the same.
drinking whiskey in the park at night
the big, cold moon.
no matter what, it always comes again.