It was the Fall of flannel, and ukulele, and eight shots of espresso every day,
and the Fall I almost killed myself, and the Fall you found me,
sitting on the curb, shoulders heaving over what you’d done.

It was the Fall I thought I’d learned to trust again;
The first false destination on my journey home.

Remember when I believed in you?
That your porcelain touch could heal every scar,
that your tears were the waters of Baptism.

All that time I thought I was falling more in love with God, but,
God, you are not -
all that I’d hoped for,
I found in you.

Until my temple became a war zone.
Until you left, and took all my faith with you.

I am afraid that what I mean when I say, “I love Fall” is that I loved you, and I don’t
want to anymore.
I haven’t seen you in eight months, so why are you still taking up so much space?

I would not have given you the lease to my heart if I’d known you were only going to
inhabit it for a few months, destroy the place, then leave.

But, your ghost still lives here.
Like a virus that only flares up when I hear a ukulele, or wear a flannel, or think of you,
which is to say, I’ve been sick since you’ve been gone, and
there is no cure in sight.

I hope that this is the Fall I leave you behind.
The Fall that finally completes all my seasons of loving, and missing, and wanting
you.