An atmosphere of autumn rain and helicopter leaves, an absolution of the season that remains untouched by mortal hands. The clouds roar open and I let the winds batter my stone heart, weathered by the fallout of an atypical storybook tale.
And I had hoped you would love me the way I had loved you, from 16 to 20. But you had withdrawn yourself from the days when you used to tell me you’d always need me, and I had walked across the Ambassador Bridge without so much a glance behind me. I realized, unshaken, that you were never more than a idealization, and I smiled because even so, you had gifted me with a muse for the ages.