falling leaves and dirty forks.
sign of the times sign of the stick season times there were no clean forks left in the drawer the bananas outlived the apples once picked with care and the house plants don’t know the time change is going to happen the glow of the fire place and the crackling of the wood hand delivered with love from my grandfather while a comforting feeling a fire place is, a lonely feeling too waking up in a cold house in a warm duvet only to have to get up and make a fire myself feminism be damned, i want someone to build me a fire the morning sun bouncing off what is left of the leaves how lonely and open the sky is starting to look when i take a deep enough breath, it feels as how i imagine a brisk wind taking what’s left of the leaves feels like the only time i’m in control stick season comes every year, but i often wonder how the first person who experienced the leaves falling must’ve felt talk about a true seasonal depression i would have thought the world is ending i can’t
