As the season changes, we will have. It will be cold now, for you are a distant frozen memory like all good things are. And as I frolick in the pier, a bottle in hand, with a little note that is ready to travel, a part of me has lifted. And changed. Where will the bottle go?
The message is a message of our time, seasonal leaves in gold and orange colors, frozen in time and trapped in the bottle.
After the storm, feelings will have changed. The sun is gone, the clothes left dripping. In a city of millions, the streets are quiet and mellow. Like an apocalypse.
My aching chest, it hurts. I try to read, but my eyes are tired. I am in bed, thinking of the letter in the bottle. I listen as my cat mutters in her sleep, though I, I am wounded but a warrior no less.
The seasons will change again. A new brightness will evolve, and I’ll remember you as a memory of my past, walking along the equinox rain.