I’ve spoken of your hands pulling me beneath tides and clouds in every season for my palms are ready to burst. I wonder if the sun would watch the second my spine is ashes. October happens every fall but never felt so angry. My anger poured into a person. Feeling is the closest thing to home. It is not sunny enough. My vices did not turn to minutes. I hope life in the eruption did not burn with your fingertips and my bones— they would exist for me. My feet flinch on his skin. Nothing could feel the same. I let a page flip to my fingers. This page was in my dreams— my mind’s realm. He should evaporate from the north. At 30,000 feet my anger felt distant. I beg of you and the seasons which drowned me. Sitting next to me I felt longing. Pieces spewing upon my palms for I should matter. Wrapped in warmth— the moment is enough. He will know his inspiration may have been brewing like bees and crushed leaves over the years— never in October.