July 8, 2016
Just because you got the last word in, it doesn't mean there's nothing left to say.
You told me that I was pretentious, today. I wouldn't let you read my journal, but you read my manuscript with me and consoled me when I got my first letter of rejection. I shared that with you. I let you in on that moment, my most personal failure. I wouldn't let you read my journal, but you read the official letter in the mail telling me I was being laid off. I shared that with you. I had to admit my faults to you. I wouldn't let you read my journal, but you read the handwritten letter from my first love when you found it in a shoebox. I shared that with you. I was honest about why I'd kept it. I told you everything.
But I wouldn't let you read my journal. You called me pretentious because these are my words to keep and my secrets to bear. I couldn't let my journal preface my love before I announced it to you, myself. Maybe the content is not that compelling. Maybe it isn't a secret at all.
YOU ARE READING
How Autumn Came to be
PoetryI've never understood why the third season of the year gets to have two names. Fall and Autumn. Spring only gets one name, as do summer and winter. It's always been lost on me, what made fall so different. And then I met you. You are the reason the...
