𖦹 INTERLUDE THREE; PACKING
there are a million tiny boxes strewn around my room like how the autumn leaves are scattered on the cruel october earth, each a tiny piece of a story forgotten. this chapter of your life is unraveling, the leaves whisper to me, colors curling away from their stems like the smoke out of a chimney. i shiver. our chimney broke yesterday, did you know? with it, i too broke. when you've been trying so long to keep every little thing packed tightly away, you become a part of those boxes, too. you stick shut your lips with the same scotch tape you smothered that box with. the words are forever trapped beneath the surface, because now it's winter, and the ponds in your eyes are frozen forever- or so you hope. some will knock on my doors, but i smile softly and tell them it's too late. my breath has been gone since the start of september, and it won't reveal itself until the birth of march, which sounds achingly like never to my ears. i have sealed my last box, and i'll be gone by september with the chilling birth of october winds. i am done packing. i am ready to fly.
