leaves on benches.
new clothes and books and pens and
loose leaf paper and lamps and rugs and other
fifteen dollar furnishings.
pretending last year never happened and we've always been friends.
wind.
rain.
cigarettes never tasted so good.
perversly dark skin hidden again under fabric.
jackets, not coats, not bare arms.
anticipation.
golden
sunlight through the branches of trees.
the juxtaposition of
contentment and
rebellion as we rest after
summer but try to expend all the energy that will only make us petulant, come
winter.
october 31 and
the last revel.
season premieres that seem like they could be novel and fascinating, before we grow jaded again and realize it's always the same.
drinking whiskey in the park at night.
the big, cold moon.
no matter what, it always comes again.