along with the memory
The height of fall. The streets are buried in leaves. Morning is rising. Red-tinged shadows extend over the green, crunchy carpets. The air took on its own pinkish shade too. Wind curls and breaks on today’s shadow. In every shadow lives an unlucky piece, a small feather of misfortune. I look around inside the mirror and spy sunken eyes. Little lights dance around the border and I spray fresh scents on dead air.
Hide and seek on a dead end street.
Shuffling around by touch as I peer through the blinds.
My enemy pours out and I watch,
without sadness or hate,
not merely a person, but very much alive.