red.

fall is my favorite season, so stuffed with wind and endless cups of coffee. poetry lights the ceaseless dimness within. baths produce rare minuets of calamity, shared loneliness defines most of me, I breath for the life of my mother, and my father.
I am there daughter, perhaps, however, I still live alone, I still find mobbed pieces of joy , leftover form the day before, in the back of my fridge, and though, though I have completely forgotten what it may be like to search for gratitude. it surprises me.
leaves scattered at my window, and days without rain or sunshine, days with nothing but wind.
this is what the very core of my life, the crumbs of it, have become.