Autumn had a tattoo of a raindrop on her cheek. It seemed to fall from summer in the open blue her eyes reflected setting underneath the tresses of her flaxen hair. Her sighs were threaded smoke to sew her evanescent words behind, her ashen-tinted whispers playing Judas to a burdened thought, and walking by the forest in the morning when the air was thick, she burnt away the hours so discreetly.
Tracing for a dream, but lost for sleep, was Autumn’s wander, something set apart and in the tidal fog she bears it. Someone drawn in palls of mist, a ghost to call her name, to call a season til the sun is up and drying. Just Autumn and the trees to breathe together green philosophies of when they both were innocent, to speak of smaller times over a cigarette or two and let the freshness of the air cut through her lungs like sunshine.
Autumn had a tattoo of a raindrop on her cheek. She watched it multiply inside the ripples of a stream today, watched it paint a torrent there beneath the quiet overcast, an empty little downpour in the hearsay of a morning just before the sun would rise up high enough to take her name.