Maybe

By: Courtney Hardwick

The wind chills my soul,

whipping through my hair and

whispering to me its secrets.

It has it out for me.

It told me.

The leaves fall,

floating to the ground:

feverishly red and orange,

stubbornly green and wishing to stay put.

Autumn has its target,

someone in its sights.

Ready

Aim

Fire

Fall won’t ever be the same.

Explosions of colour,

and brisk walks against the breeze

are saturated by your perfume.

The kind you never even wore.

The puddles reflect in my eyes.

Who told them I was here?

Maybe if I float,

continue without a focus,

invisibility will come easier.

Maybe then their pitiful murmurs

and sorrowful glances

will be directed elsewhere.

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