Autumn

When our faces are close enough together our eyes become one. It is this disgusting attribute we call fate that keeps me standing still. Motions in the city mean nothing come winter anyway (this time last year I was fine; a few months later I was drinking and dying every night). Intersectionality is one of my favorite words, but you are woven in my life so that without you I might be one thread away from frayed. Do these pennies on my eyes glisten in the sunlight still?

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