May 23, 2016
I haven't written about anyone since setting that journal on fire. I've stopped documenting. She showed me that those sacred pages were fit to burn. I swore I would never do that again – I would never immortalize anyone else in ink. I would never be so gripped by another that I destroyed my own creations from their influence. Because even though the physical evidence is gone, the memory remains. It always does. It comes back to haunt me at inopportune moments like this.
Our first real argument was explosive. Now I wonder if I've made a mistake.
You're the first woman I've written about, since. Since swearing not to. It happened through my subconscious. I didn't register what I was doing until after, after you'd tainted these pages. And even after I realized, I didn't stop. I didn't want to stop. Something beyond me said I needed to capture this story. Because this is finally another one worth telling.
This is no mistake. You are right where you need to be, and so am I.
YOU ARE READING
How Autumn Came to be
PoetryI've never understood why the third season of the year gets to have two names. Fall and Autumn. Spring only gets one name, as do summer and winter. It's always been lost on me, what made fall so different. And then I met you. You are the reason the...
