And I’m bottling the smells of wet earth and early-season rains, pressing dead grass and leaves of autumn between my bones, weaving grey skies into my hair with autumn breezes, stippling views of muddy fields across my skin with mosquito bites — preserving what once was, but breathing in the new.

to the things I take for granted:

september blues,



dead birds,

country road thunderstorms,

unspoken words,

unwritten ideas,

skinny sunbeams in october,

letters addressed to no one,

hidden fields,




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