an old letter to october

Written by J.M. Chadwick

good morning 

when i sought out to greet you in the dawn, 
i jumped on top of the morning moon,
hit my head on the jagged edge of a fading star, 
and fell asleep. that’s why you never heard from me.
after i awoke, tear soaked, i ran across the ceiling 
and soaked in the sun spotlight of the upside-down windows.
desperate for life and angry with philosophy,
i decided to dance in the kitchen,
i practically absorbed the floorboards,
(all full of cracks and cobwebs)
but i think maybe my left feet went right.
i thought of you, so i banished myself outside 
and crunched some leaves–leaving wiry autumnal skeletons behind.
october, today i am upset 
that i will never see every single song i know 
sung live in person.
and because i don’t know how to play the violin, 
i bawled to my bed and she told me to be quiet already–you would never say that to me.
my mom put a pumpkin on my porch.
i tapped on it and it sounded empty, but i guess that wouldn’t make sense.
so, i went back into my haunted american dream house
and drew shooting stars on my hands 
(i suppose that is something only august would remember)
but then i cleaned my leather shoes 
and stared at my yellow-eyed cat.
i’m not sure he likes me much.

i am so within and without you, october.

maybe you can help me piece myself together.

all my love, 
talk soon.


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