Autumn is stretching its hands around me. Reminding me of how comfortable burning leaves can be- even as the chill digs it’s knuckles into the small of my back. I still smile for the sake of breathing and being and bravery. Everyone tells me how brave I am. I guess if I had to utter a word that means more than a word it’d be braveness. Sometimes I think I’m no such thing. I crawl behind closed doors. Drenching my spirit in comforting shadows. Licking my wounds while dreading the next fight. Coiled on a twin sized mattress. Never graduating from the grief to add another happy ending because there is no such thing. I’m the cold room chill. I’m the ending summer. I’m the ghost stories we left under the floorboard written across note book paper and red pen. I hope the people who bought the house find them. Reads how each character dissects the mystery like the latticework stitched between each choice. Everything is a choice. It’s not linear. It’s a tornado of decisions and if you make the right one, it’ll end up being wrong somehow. So please just tell me what you see in the moment. Show me how my grief looks to you. Tell me how you think I’ll get better. Changing like the seasons as I shed my skin for the next phase of the moon. Let it coat me in dark halos because it knows how tired I am of the heat. And when I wake up, I’ll greet autumn with a gracious hello- wishing for it to stay longer, but never does. -AMT