Twigs.

I was born in March
and somehow the month of your birth
always feels like the weekend or the
inhale of your life.
If that’s the case
then fall is the death of my life.
The anniversary before the event.
I’m not a pleasure chaser.
As much as I celebrate dopamine
and white knuckling,
I chase new scent like new life.
New books new paint new scenery
too on-the-nose.
I want laundromats that have never seen
the chemicals I grew up pouring.
I want asphalt that’s never burned the
frogs and worms that came after my childhood’s hot rain.
I want skin completely foreign to
my salts and breath.
Like how I watched my honey become rosemaries
then rosemaries become pine.
God,
if I’m not breathing new in my nose,
the problems I imagine are obstacles like fog,
become obstacles like glass.
So
when I have one more Fall that smells like sap and cold wet
dirt and deciduous death,
I smell
myself under the earth
and under the orange
with no such view of the stars.
What is the use of emaciated leafless trees if there is nothing to see through their fingers?

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