Loss, Leaves

How can one lose what has never been theirs to call their own? Is it possible for loss when there was no gain in the first place? Then why do I feel sad when I see falling leaves being carried away by the blowing wind, when they were never mine to begin with? Though it may still be Spring, the leaves have turned an Autumn red.

And it burns me, all the same. The compression of a tightening chest, a veil of doubt over my eyes, and the storm-clouds that prompt the simultaneous opening of umbrellas in a narrow alleyway-- I cannot even find myself within myself. All there is now, is a rain of weeping leaves: the essence of you, stained by the dewdrops left over from a fantasy come undone.

The tears, not even the salt water of the Sea-- none can wash away the amber hue of the Spring leaves that have burnt before they can be plucked; such is the haste in which my touch conveys.

If I lay myself to rest in this rain that is indifferent to the pain which accompanies piercing bullets, then I will eventually wake up in the winter where the apathy of white snow has already bleached the Autumn leaves a colourless grey.