The crumpled leaves blow across this street like pieces of paper, once attempted letters to people we loved. The breeze chills me to the bone. I can feel its burden in my feet, making this tragedy hard to speak. The moon is giving off a good light, a light that has me slightly mesmerized and enchanted stream pointing far off in this scene and I might be past the point of no return. To return those crumpled letters that have fallen off the trees, like leaves, to their owners like library books without the fees, for they are long overdue you see. And the shadows that have suddenly engulfed me, must be dancing with this breeze because they are moving all the same. The stars, usually so far, seem to be closer to my head tonight for their heat has got me bewitched and the witching hour that causes sweat doesn't bother me tonight, but the headlights of a distant item, casting sounds like rusty swings, has be captivated by the moon to pick up those leaves, and read their letters. The lovers, they do howl, for their letters are astray; on rooftops, streets and lawns you see, they are searching for a way. But that is what they'll try to do. Fall and fall and fall again, for tis the season to be falling in and out of the way.