October's bones,
bathed in grape juice and apple cider,
laid on the pillows as if some holy relics,
waiting to be worshiped by the commoners
uninitiated in the art of forgetting about life.
Beyond the window,
the cloudy dawn caressed,
like the hand of a lover intoxicated with autumn,
the sweet curve of the mountain
resembling too much to the thigh of some naked woman,
as it lounged under the pine trees' perfumed blanket.
It was then that I realized
how much
my own thigh missed
your hand.

Small noises began to stroke my attention,
stretching it
– the village coming to life,
not caring about my insomnia
or about the deep scent of ordinarity
impregnating my thoughts.
Autumn was here,
claiming its toll of joy from those ready to harvest its tasty beauty
– but there is still too much
summer residue on my skin to be savored,
like the morning after our first night together.

It was raining
– but more of a drizzle,
not the usual summer storms,
which come all of a sudden and leave just the same.
We sat together on the wooden porch of the house,
sipping tea from red plastic glasses
while listening to the rain
– cha-no-yu kitsch.
Our voices were silent,
sheltering in the core of their absence
the monotonous sound of raindrops
tickling the wood boards.
Our gazes braided across the ground fog
in search for salty seeds of rainbows
hanging on the grass blade tips
– the fragrance of moist earth filled our lungs
and there was so much peace...

I turned my eyes away from the window,
suddenly tired of all the life
that was pulsating through the veins of the earth.
"Time for a caffeine OD", I thought,
deciding to ignore myself
and to drown my tiredness in
the white porcelain mug
waiting for me in the kitchen
– the same mug that you gave to me
on some obscure occasion
and that is still the faithful servant of my mornings.

You always said that coffee would kill me eventually,
but you also knew
when you bought me that mug,
that it would never feel the silken taste of
tea or any other beverage.
Only once I desecrated its purpose
– having a hot chocolate from it,
instead of my usual black brew,
because I had run out of coffee,
and I remember your amusement
when watching me washing the residual content
with feelings of remorse
painted all over my movements.

The black scent invaded my nostrils,
pushing away unalterably my sleep
and readying my eyes for
the sun yet to reveal itself from the clouds.
From a distance,
the monastery's semantron
called the monks at the Morning Prayer
and I felt a soft guilt for the heresy wrapping my thoughts
– how pitiful must be the god
whose adorers need to be reminded
to talk to him...
how lonely...
and how ignorant
of what makes real wings grow
on the back of thoughts,
teaching them the taste of ozone...
I wonder,
if everyone forgot to think about their gods one day,
would those suddenly feel
the icy teeth of oblivion
biting deep in their flesh?

Such stupid thoughts...
and above all this,
October continues to weave
everybody else's fall
from separate threads than those of mine...