Autumn can't feel her footsteps. They've washed away, been pressed aside, woven too quickly, swept into a storm. Likewise does the white fall as the ground reclaims new meaning. She snows, she cries, and she bleeds shades of sparkling, helpless orange, and watches every leaf be weighted down by endless, enchanting pallor, a gradual surrender from a hovering plane.

Carelessly, wantonly. Passion fades; the marks remain; winter inhales a shuddering breath as Autumn dies.

A scattered woman turns about the streets, gravel spinning beneath her toes. Rotations speak of riddles as she speaks of Falling in her own silent way, hair Falling out by the handful, breaking and snapping like necks. A world on fire is not meant to crackle; it is not meant to twist and burn, it is not meant to sing low notes, or high notes, or harmonies of false color. It is not meant to scratch and sway in a chilling, frightful gray, to collapse under threatening wind. We are not meant to die alone – her only consolation. We are not meant to tremble and break like leaves.

She cries when she learns that she is not Fall because the leaves are falling, but because everything is leaving, leaving and Falling and breaking. There is no believing a single word of consolation, this not dying alone, this dying with everything else... She let it Fall into the coldest slumber;- Fall, and Leave, and break.

Autumn lies in despair as her footsteps tip and sway. Her arms grow heavy, and she wonders if they will tumble free, if they will shatter themselves in hides of brown. Will she sleep like the animals do, glittering and glowing in a silent world, cast beneath February's smile? Will nonsense cohere, or will it, too, contaminate the gray? Fragility, numbness. A breaking free. Daylight pours onward, hours worth of it. Small hands reach above, her own hands, straining toward an overcast sky, but they are caught by oxygen so easily... So quickly captured, so quickly lost, so quickly ripped to pieces in a shower of golden red.

"You breathe silently," the seasons whisper. Spring and Summer play like children, trading a love that never fades; Winter tosses her porcelain hair, gazes into a pool of ice, admires her own shimmering deportment. "... While Autumn gasps and struggles, too warm to die, too cold to blossom, a victim to her own strangulation."

To believe in perfection is to escape the dawning of something more important, more apt for happiness... Her hands are white and the sky is overcast, a spasm from the gloaming times. Do not Fall in the road... the words recant. Do not acclimate to your title. Do not weaken, do not stumble, do not...

She stripped herself of every leaf, every prosper, every stability; she let every tree blaze with in its own conflagration of light, its song of rustling bone, of twilit colors scraping a hidden, winding road. Naked now, the trees, trembling and black, croak and groan like frozen skeletons, a sacrifice to her own insecurity, her quest for admiration...

And, cradled by the cold, grey road, she Fell until there was nothing left; her eyes, a comforting brown, took the stance of intentions wrought with jealousy, withered in the fashion kindness, forgotten in the fashion of love.

Autumn passed to winter and Fell with every leaf.