In the Autumn of my Eve

I so desperately wanted her to believe that I was a Vagabond worth keeping.

In a sense.

Unencumbered by the quiet patience that only Fall can exude, I burst, bold and brash, upon her stages. Oh, there were so very many to perform upon. Nestled between the shoulders of the smothering summer warmth and the aloof approach of a bitter winter cold, we found our way in the uncertainty that is the In Between.

Wide eyed, wonderful, and young enough to believe forever was a nomenclature for the rest of my moments, I drowned within the ticking drops of a bedside clock. Piercing red numbers, glaring out from a soft, plastic sheath, prying their way beneath my eyelids. How majestic & cruel goodness can be defines me to this very day.

There were quilted skies. So many nights blanketed by them. Quilted.

In the hopeful dreams of youth and the waning recall of age & discretion, there exists a place where all things are completely wrong and yet so very, very right.

I hear a lonely violin that seems so out of place yet so wonderful and moving, pulsing inside my eardrum. I can hear it and yet, I cannot. A singular sound finding its way without a whimper. A raindrop that began a deluge.

In the autumn of my eve, I remain.

At least tonight.