The rustling of wet leaves against the soft belly of Sunday morning.
Clouded grey filtered through passive white linen.
Light spots swim in the corner of the room, dancing on my exposed skin, coldly kissed with the breath mark of Fall.
I fold myself back into the black blankets of sleep, slipping into dreams gift-wrapped with the comfort of untenanted time.
I tucked you away under pillows and stars, muffled the cracks of your memory with fallen leaves and dark soil.
Covering the roots before the bite of white snow.