The skies fill with menacing clouds but the season for thunder has gone. Now comes the quiet rage of autumn, with its long silences and crisp afternoons, that old unwinding ritual all over again.
My head’s been throbbing for days and I’m tired. It’s like some inner battery is giving up the ghost. I guess it’ll pass, eventually.
It has to pass.
I look around me & the truth is blinding, the trajectory too clear to dismiss. We fight to find each other but it still begins & ends in isolation, in a solitary unravelling
at the onset of winter.