clutching for warmth
these photographs hold some old memories that i don't want to forget from years ago. last time i spoke to sam, he told me he wanted me to write beautiful words for his beautiful musical compositions. i miss these sorts of adventures in the woods.
today the sky shivered with a feverish gray, liquid sailing in pearly drops down its sleek forehead onto the earth. the wet leaves smell raw, and i interpret the smells as amber, auburn, persimmon, crimson. i taste colour in my mouth, and it makes my tongue swollen and heavy like honey. i am walking through oily puddles, pointy heels clicking against the pavement as the rainwater soaks through the soft material. when i am driving, the sky hangs over me like an ocean in a photograph from a hundred years ago. autumn has crept deceptively under my skin, infusing me with a cold loneliness that was previously reserved for the bony season of winter. now, before the bare-limbed trees and jack frost's haunting kisses, i find myself clutching for warmth- hot cups of tea that i wrap my hands around, thick oceanic blankets as my cocoon. autumn is always this picture of melancholy >> a man is clothed in a thick wool coat, walking on an empty street under a seemingly endless arch of richly coloured trees. the ground is wet, and brown, muddled leaves stir at his feet. i know that the dismal ache runs even deeper under the skin.