By Isabél Murgelas

this season is dipped in gold 

but I’m dripping in dark greys. 

the same shade as those low clouds 

that hang overhead before it rains

and it’s 6 pm now.

soon the day will be swallowed by the night.

the platform I’m on lit only by a temporary streetlight. 

early autumn feels like waiting for a train that never comes, 

like having no real destination. just pacing in the in-between 

as the green loses its pigmentation. 

sometimes, I crave isolation again. 

my body mirrors the fragility of falling leaves 

as my mind disconnects from the loud machines. 

you see I’ve tried, and failed, 

to meditate inside this empty house.

the voices in my head get too loud 

but I’ll forgive them.

they’re just trying to figure out 

the complexities of this sick, yet sweet life. 

I’ll embrace the stillness when it comes,

bask in the quiet for as long as it lasts.

tend to my skin so that one day 

maybe I can heal from my past. 

If I can’t swap hands, I’ll learn to play my cards.