Maybe
By: Courtney Hardwick
The wind chills my soul,
whipping through my hair and
whispering to me its secrets.
It has it out for me.
It told me.
The leaves fall,
floating to the ground:
feverishly red and orange,
stubbornly green and wishing to stay put.
Autumn has its target,
someone in its sights.
Ready
Aim
Fire
Fall won't ever be the same.
Explosions of colour,
and brisk walks against the breeze
are saturated by your perfume.
The kind you never even wore.
The puddles reflect in my eyes.
Who told them I was here?
Maybe if I float,
continue without a focus,
invisibility will come easier.
Maybe then their pitiful murmurs
and sorrowful glances
will be directed elsewhere.
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