“Doing nothing is something; it means accepting that falling apart is as normal for us as breathing.”

I built you a home in my chest by clearing out everything that was useless. My skin was paper, so I cut it away into tiny shapes of cranes, and you smiled as my flightless birds floated on top of the bathwater. You watched them only long enough to see as they made their way from one end to the other, so I won’t blame you for not knowing that water and paper birds don’t exactly mix. My ribs were bleached chalk, so I turned them into the seasons. During the summer they became the white letters littering sidewalks and flat driveways. As Autumn soaked the leaves that shimmering amber of hard liquor, my ribs found root in your gardens and became your second bloom of pristine Candytuft. When winter gave you nothing but a bitterly bright tundra, my bones turned into powder, as soft as moonlight, to gently kiss your rosy cheeks. And when Spring finally came, I flattened what remained of my ribs into cherry blossoms. They were tinged the palest pink at the stem, but you didn’t seem to mind, so I ignored the color. Even as that pink began to run red, I didn’t stop. You were still smiling, with every petal that filled the air you were smiling so wide… so of course I couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down….how could I, when I was making you smile?

You taught me the value in all things, so even if you’re gone, I can still find reasons to keep on living.

Love is not blind.

Love is a vision beyond our eyes.

I can close my own

And right in front of me

Does my love appear.

She is formed

By all things;

Her hair are wisps

That lead lost souls

Through dark woods.

Her eyes are petals,

Slow falling light

Through a somber winter.

Her hands are the morning,

The start of all things,

A welcome to beginnings,

And a steady help

For the beginning of the end.

Her lips are autumn;

They are warm

Like the lingering summer,

But as time passes

And the Sun begins to set

Faster and faster,

And rise later and later,

She does all she can

To give you hope.

She colors you fire

Before burying you in ice,

So you may find life again

In the spring.

My love has given me

The greatest gift of all;

She is formed by all things,

And so it is in all things

That I can find a reason

To love, even if that thing

Is me.

“I am October, Ohio.”

I am October’s colors, my skin the reflection of bruised peaches and burnt honey. I stick to all things green, suckling away at their breast, until only a shriveled husk remains, clinging onto skeleton branches, begging the wind to let them be. My winds are not so kind as to carry any calls for help, even if it would be in my self-interest. I am October, Winters harlot and Summers whore. I welcome September with amber whispers, while Death waits in the kitchen for crumpets and tea. Before November arrives, I will have suffocated every cul-de-sac’s front yard with the flesh of ancient oaks, and laugh along with the children as they make piles of the refuse skin to jump and play in. I am October, a fire without heat, burning the sunset past the horizon, leaving life tinged the shallow shade of a red run dry. I am October, because we are the same; we are only beautiful when we are dying.