Etched in books, these autumn leaves tumble and turn into
shadows of forgotten loves and languid days of nothing.
Impeach me with your love and shade me in the shelter of
worlds built from sand and salt, from ice and bone and love and pain.
With each breath, I rise, these bubbles of imaginary
popping against the sharp spurs of reality and now.
Still, we are drowning in the perpetuity of this,
but the droplets scatter and join and we will always be.
* * *
This was written in response to the NaPoWriMo prompt, Fourteener, which consists of lines with 14 syllables. I don’t know how well I did since I struggle with constraints. 🙂