loneliness of being. I once said, that I had a solid attitude towards solitude. Of course, this could be so much further from the truth. It’s October, and the streets are littered with what-if’s and could-be memories. The soggy paper leaves read like torn love letters, they cling to my boots and I carry them home. The fall makes me want to hold hands with something other than dying trees. Clinging to warmth, cupping hot soups and burning my hasty tongue. Speaking of hasty tongues, mine gets me into trouble. But worse, my reckless heart. I cannot help my passion from spilling out, it’s like I have a leak in me. My sea-sick lover tethered and cursed to drown. Alas, they wriggle free. For now I’ll read too much badly written erotica, and imagine a man who isn’t a ghost I hold hands with in the fall.