Autumn.
My skin falls and yours is not there.

I turn to the canvas, but it’s not color I want to smear your whiteness with.
I face the white screen, but it’s not light that I seek.
I confront the blank page, but words will not bring solace.
Then my skin falls on the piano ivory.

Fingers sliding down each key.
Caresses that the air won’t keep.

The music was already playing in my head.
The beat was already being followed by my heart.
But it was my skin that needed the touch.
The touch that turns into music, color, light, words… and none of that.

Autumn.
My skin falls and yours is not there.

ote: playing ‘Le Depart’ by The Style Council]