Cotton sweaters strangle me

as I unfurl my past, my future,

my existence.

Autumn leaves whisper goodbye to

their swollen tree branches,

falling, falling, falling…

Homemade cinnamon fills the shivering air

and overstays its welcome.

Winter warmly touches my insulated hands

when no one else would.

I am here, sitting at my lonely desk

writing this out...

as the searing memories of a summer gone by

linger

in sedentary motion.

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