I
It's autumn outside,
but winter
within the words
slipping too far
from my mouth.
I collect white pages
(with summer's shadow
supposedly showing
between the lines);
just to pretend
I have something more important to say
than a seasonal distance.
II
Everything seems
too small for me,
so I decide to paint pictures
in case I forget
what no-matter-what
looks like;
and expect that even short days
will spread the sun
that I feel.
III
Maybe then,
I'll fail to remember
These empty syllables,
filling hours
with muted memories,
bedsheets as lost fondling
and monotone motives of mornings
where warmth of my body
turns to no one.
(Unless you're part
of my sunrise).
IV
So far,
I did not leave an imprint
on this world,
as if I was never really there
at all,
though that could change.
(Hopefully)
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