From here I see the crimson and amber drifting leaves.
The empty playground waiting like ice cream shops in the winter.
Barren trees stand steady as the vigorous wind blows through.

You swing calmly on the creaky swing.
Dark cinnamon eyes focused on nothing but the loose wood chips beneath your feet.
Your fingers fiddle with the rusted chain,
almost the same way you would lightly drag them up and down my arm.

My bed sheets still smell of your skin.
The sunlight sneaking through the crevices of the dented ivory blinds,
tucking myself under your arm and gently resting my head on your broad chest.
Silence screamed throughout the room.

I know you are thinking of the Webster’s Dictionary that was thrown,
to mask the lingering hope.
Wishing you would look me in the eye, despite the bitter sting.
But I know the after taste is worse.