There are things missing – puzzle pieces lost in the everyday hustle – thoughts, feelings, words, meanings, all missing. Lost, maybe? Or maybe just…not found. Like little torn petals in an uncovered basket that drift away with the wind or leaves that cling a little too lightly to their branch. Why does the branch never cling back?

Autumn. The season of decadence. Maybe it looks better that way – faded, water-washed and filtered orange. More aesthetically pleasing, like a story without the words. Peak season for insect vacations. Maybe I’ll crawl under a pile of leaves and feed off their demise.

But things get worse before they get better. So Winter comes with its despair. And stays. Cold has a way of seeping in through the tiniest cracks, and chilling the healthiest bodies. Fear not though. Winter fears the Cold we carry.

Summer was afraid we would miss the crystaline ice we wore as jewelry in our bones, so it forgot to come.

And all thats left of fairytales are the snow angels lying crushed beneath us.