It happens in October.
When the days aren’t as long as they
weretwo months ago.
Ten years ago.
Sleep came easy when I was full.
When the days were full
and I fell into bed
my legs aching with the blocks I ran
and the worlds I distanced by crossing
the streetand the universes I walked in and out
of in my backyard.and I woke up feeling eight hours
betterinstead of ten years older.
Now leaps and bounds don’t quite reach
my bedroom door.And I sit up late nights.
And my legs ache from being folded for
so long.And when I shift I hear the water in my
stomach.It happens in October.
Now that I can finally carve the
pumpkin just like the pictureand realize it’s not the way I wanted.
And I’m tall enough for a county fair
stamp that lets me on all of the rides,but I’m too impatient to wait in the
lines.And I don’t get lost in corn mazes.
And I don’t hold my breath when I pass
cemeteries anymorebecause I know only the bodies are
thereand the ghosts are everywhere else.
It happens in October
when the breeze feels just like it
always didbut the way I felt then is never the
way I do now.And I know it’s silly to cry, because
Things that happened then but don’t
anymorearen’t things I’ve Lost.
They’re things I’ve had.
But the act of realizing
things are different
things are new
things will never be the same,
to me,
is losing.
And that always happens in October.