indian summer

I feel everything or nothing at all. It’s all so fragile, I think, sitting in silence on a porch swing in the lasting humid heat of an early southern October. I only write sometimes, but I used to not write at all. Sometimes writing feels like punches and sometimes it feels like a needle under my skin euthanizing the pieces of me I no longer want. I wonder vaguely what you think about as we sit in silence on this swing, staring out at the trees just beginning to yellow. Fall is so lovely, but everything will die in winter.