Arcadia

71

I can feel the wind drying up, all my words slipping away into thin air chilled already with a promise of winter. Late autumns are always harsh, the last of the rain brings memories of another year gone past, memories like dead fall leaves floating down the drain, dull ochre, brown with black patches. Another year gone to waste.

Another year, and I am alone again.

October is when my city lights up in all the colours that you can think of, all the colours that don't even have a name. The city lights up, and my insides are scorched.

Another year older, and I am still as lost.