A droplet of rain

casually falls on my

unkempt, woolen head.

It spills from the

eavestrough, overfilled,

and swollen with

the exhausted leaves

of early autumn.

 

I miss the woods

at dusk, and the wind

caught in my lungs,

bringing old creation to

my blood. I’ve always

known how the

subtle, saccharine taste

of longing is abundant

in terse isolation,

and I’m too afraid

to investigate anything else.

 

I think of my propensity

to yawn while passing

funeral parlors,

yawns that shudder through

my ribcage and

tighten like

anxious knots.

 

But I know dreams like

these are for

those who, like I, have

misplaced their spleens.

The medical marvels

that we are. So I’ll allow

this drop to roll down my nose,

and strike the pavement

on the front steps of my

nearly forgotten home.