I’m still looking to my left because it points to you. I’m starting to see double. The air constricts me in ways I have never felt. I’m choking on my words- they’re hanging onto the back of my throat. Daring me to suffocate. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t. It’s getting dark earlier and I wait for the moon to drench it’s light over my bones to make something holy out of me. My journal has been empty but I promise I’m still writing poetry in my sleep- trying to piece together this latticework of sadness sewn into my brain. I think I’m tired from the world- it’s exhausted me like the scars it left and the phantom pains I feel. In some ways it won, but in some ways I’ve won too- I guess that’s called a truce. It’s just a changing season and I’m here for the wilting leaves because they’re only thing that makes sense to me lately. I crave moments I never had and memories that I hold under my tongue because they taste too sweet to let go of. Sometimes it isn’t enough. It actually never is. Every night I’ve been driving in silence until the world looks unfamiliar and the cornfields beg me to turn around. And when I’m on my way home from the south side of town I always look left because it points to you. -AMT