Fall Back by Cooper Gregg

The wind is picking up the ends of my hair and the sun is sitting at the end of my driveway. 

Winter, burying her face in the woods behind my house.

Soon, I’ll come out and ask her to play.

There’s a stack of books on my desk I’ve never read.

Like the girl with highways down her spine,

like pins on a map I’ll never visit,

November is an unmarked location

The bus stops between grief and good company.

Indistinguishable under the guise of a moonless fall night,

they split a bus fare on the back roads of my mind. 

The wind is picking up the ends of my hair and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow is breathing down my neck,

dancing in the back of my throat like the cinnamon in my coffee. 

I’m out in my yard elbow deep in a hurt I never let go.

I’ve been using big words to hide how simply I’ve been longing. 

Falling back, November is my vice.