Just like an autumn coat, I was seasonal. People come and go, on and on.

I was gone, when they found spring. But I was and am not seasonal.

Will I? It lies in maybe no. Because yes is dependant on meaning.

It feels like last autumn, when I did not catch the falling maple.

Autumn is not cold, because it is seemingly warm, yet not really true.

Autumn falls, again and again. Just like its withering friends, coming and going. On and off.
© Giacinta Mitchelia Dharma