seasons.

To You,

I suppose I am reminded of you most at the first sign of Summer’s demise.  When the evening gets greedy and stretches its limbs, forcing the sun to drop beneath that horizon earlier each night.  I suppose this is only appropriate, seeing as a change in season seemed to be all it took to snap the brittle connection bridging the gap between us.  We were that fragile, and I always knew it.

But if you were to ask me a cordial question of pretence pertaining to my recent existence, I would give you the following answer:
There has been the moon.  Singing downward with its otherworldly glow, forever reminding me that I belong to the eerie gloom of Autumn.
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