almost hooriya masood

almost

today i am not september. i am not new beginnings and the crimson flush of autumn, i am not the crackle of leaves underneath worn leather boots, i am not a cascade of heated longing in my body, yearning disguised as a cup of tea, i am not one of the hundred fall poems i write every year. to be alive in september is to begin again, a fresh breath of relief, chances falling in bronze colours onto my cold, bare hands. to fall for an october is an adventure, a newly kindled fire, blazing desire, and hunger pricking at your ribs. to lose yourself in november is to find yourself dripping in yearning, waiting to belong — but there is always an almost. fingertips brush the rough-edged ends of the chapter, yet you never finish the book. but today i cannot find september and i am flailing. the book remains unopened and i lose myself searching for my familiar autumn timeline. for once, i am wary of what the seasons will bring me. x

ART by LABIQAH IFTIKHAR WORDS by HOORIYA MASOOD