Dusting Off Dreams

It's Fall Again

I tripped and missed her bed.

This bottle of beast is cuddling close, silently screaming fragilities, or infidelities, which I can't tell.

The bitter tastes sweet, and the wine shines auburn.

I'm stuck in a drought, and I don't drink, too bad today's a different day.

A crack in the ceiling, she holds a candle to leaks rainwater, dripping through the tension.

A missing smile tucked behind an upside-down grin changes its course.

A handful of water hits her back like a wet blanket slapping the floor.

She's taken aback, gasping for a response.

Two handfuls of water return my direction.

She pinned me against the wall, kissing me like she hadn't over the summer — as she had two years ago in her dorm room.

She slipped through the door like crisp leaves crackling beneath her feet, making even autumn blush.