Autumn Without Apology

Autumn doesn’t ask permission - just rolls in like it’s got somewhere better to be, ripping the green from trees because, let’s be honest, no one cares about “evergreen.” The leaves drop like they’re over it, done with pretending to hold it together - each one hitting the ground like a mic drop. No big deal, just an exit. And me? I’m taking notes. Watching them unravel without a single apology, making “falling apart” look like art. The air’s colder now, sharp enough to cut through the noise, smelling like nostalgia and bad decisions. It’s that perfect blend of mess and clarity, and I breathe it in like I need it. The trees are naked, but somehow they own it - standing there like they’ve got nothing to hide, like shedding layers was always the plan. So, I stand still, hands stuffed in my pockets, thinking if the trees can let go and still look this good doing it, maybe letting go is how you finally rise.