The sound of the autumnal leaves leaves me with the illusion of the beginnings of a downpour.
A train's rhythm to Paddington in the distance knocks nostalgia into me. It never reaches its destination. Slowdive plays, and I gaze out from my window. Former lovers become strangers, and stranger still. We become so far removed, and proud of it. How we learnt, developed, and are all the better for it.
When we embraced one another, I felt us float into the ethereal.
The moment was barely tangible, and your fingers were barely imaginable as they stroked my palm with intimacy. We disappeared.
Finally you become the smoke. Free; cavorting, and dancing in the breeze, through the change of the season. Your scent is lifted; you soar. It's what we must come to expect; the departure of the embers.
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