It only rained — broken drops fell for
the cold stones,
dusting
loneliness.
Autumn cold felt like pinching white chalk on a blackboard,
little white flies shed under.
Their feeble screech burnt
yearned
like love
I couldn’t get my attention off the chestnuts,
dank
smashed needles bloom like algae,
green like your jacket’s sleeves.
I trod on it ferociously,
I hated to remember
it was also green like
Where my heart should be.
I imagined it would hurt like last time
And I imagined turning it over and seeing the melted brown flesh,
dying
because of me.

Maybe that’s the problem.
I only imagine.
Yet I trod on my imagination to hold your sleeves
Little white lies shed under.