The air is as damp as my Cotten shirt with the aftermath of rain.

It smells fresh: of nothing, of newness.

Sparse trees carry dappled signs of autumn.

They are boastful, molting — evolved.

Dew glazes brown branches until they gleam with heavy moisture.

Wet leaves form a patchwork on pavement,

the world spinning a colored quilt as the sky grows pale.

My clothes form a skein plastered to my body.

It presses the cold into my bones.

I long to peel paper thin fabric away and coax the water to dissipate.

Rain runs like blood in my veins: internal, eternal.

I am overflowing,

drowning from the inside out.

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