September came and it didn’t feel like I thought it would. Summer turned to autumn and as the leaves changed and fell I continued to shed the skin you once touched. Memories started bubbling to the surface, and luckily this time I could handle them. But they still came, still rushed forward like a turbulent stream breaking through a dam and my mind was the dissapointing beaver who had watched the water trickle through for weeks before the final release. Everything I would built to survive you was falling away.
The last time this season rolled around from us, we were already dying. We were already a wilted flower begging to be watered after months of a drought. I could feel us dying, felt it in the crisp air and your dry hands and my sleep-deprived voice. Both of us had stopped eating. Both of our bodies were on fire, peeling and shrinking, ashes piles building up beside us. We went through it together, the disintegration, but attempting to hold you as you were burned down was only more painful.
I’m not who you knew — not anymore. You wouldn’t be able to carry me the same way again, wouldn’t be able to break me the same. I suppose that’s a victory in and of itself; that’s all I can ask for after all of this.