Architecture.

It's the kind of day where building
forts, writing novels, and learning
'The Phantom of the Opera'
on the church's pipe organ
would be pleasing.

I don't need to glance outside to
know leaves have become crisp,
colors are leaving their souls and
I cannot sleep beneath them
anymore.
To know that the air is cold and
clouded makes me not know
where I should stay.

Earlier today I began wondering
why our day was made silent,
why it felt like I was losing you
even though you haven't been
critically ill in years.

I get tired of living here.
Your eyes ask: in this house?
I think, no, on this earth.

But I'm taking Tapioca little
by little from a plastic cup,
as I hold my dog, still damp
from his bath...

waiting for the sounds of falling
rain and lamentable books
that have no library yet for
dreamers to warm.

And how I dream of being
untraceable in an October
shower, inching my way
through secret passageways
where
memories transform into
a new life I can pledge.

-

Written 10/15/13 @ 5:01 PM
this would have been my honest thoughts poem #2, except I wanted to give a title for this time.