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.
The Bucketlister 