If December Comes

if i make it to the end of september, will u bring me back with you? i barely remember the feel of the cherry tree, but i think i can re-learn how to speak to you. and my opened sores wont hang here from the skin like this forever, and then i can cook for you and i can read to you and i can make a bed for us. 44 days. if october shows up, starts hanging around, i promise i will keep her secrets for a year. until the dust blows, and leaves are dried up again, i will wait til the first dead leaves to breathe and beg and need you again. ive got 2 dreams that revolve around my spine, every night. one is memory and one is a wish. the memory is: alone, inside a shaking hotel room peeking through the blinds and the whole world is a violent shade of lavender. the wish is: death becoming birth, everything ive ever loved and lost springing back up through a barren garden. and growing. the loss of innocence; the return of destruction; the death of intelligence; the life of a stranger. if i make it to the end of september, will you come looking, like i was something you misplaced? i have forgotten the taste of a sweet red apple, but i know what it feels like when the rain is touching my skin. my forest of insecurity is brighter in the summer, or in the reflection of the snow. and then i could sing you to sleep, i could paint the walls of our home with your favorite colrs. if december comes back and im still alone,