its autumn now, leaves falling to the earth
creating the next name for a season,
an angel, unnamed.
ink dipped feathers shedding from the bubbles
that formed when you fell.
i’ve always wondered what it’d be like to fall,
air resistance resists the death of a human mind.
a mind already dead. dying.
rot creeping up the lines.
bedtime at 8:30, it becomes 9
the kitchen is dirty.
the dog is still outside.
dont lie to her.
ive already torn that apart.
of the same mistakes
now ive buried my brain in the back yard
in a jar.
sealed with my secrets,
decomposing like coffee grounds.
theres still a song stuck in the throat
of my skeleton.
decaying on war ground.
moral of the story: nothing good comes from falling.