Crunch.
Rustle.
Sounds of brittle autumn leaves,
Skins, shed from the tree,
Trodden upon, heard not seen.
Cold air,
Sharp, carries sounds.
Brisk, breaks bonds;
That are drained of moisture.
Warmth hides,
Moisture layered on moisture.
So much on top,
That what's within seems inconsequential,
And everything stays, exists.
The skin on my body tears,
Cracks all along,
It was pulling at me,
Taut,
But with cold, it finally breaks.
Pink skin underneath,
Almost red, but cloaked in white.
For drawing blood for this shift,
Wouldn't be an apt sight.
There's nothing I can do but see,
As I come out from within me.
The shedding skin rustles,
Brittle now that it's broken.
Cannot hold its form even with its own,
Falls in pieces.
Translucent pieces of soft beige,
White, but with a little infusion of dirt.
Lines on them, the lines of definition.
The winding path we travelled on,
Etched on the fallen skin,
Unending lines,
No pattern, no destination.
Familiar scent of self
Effervesces from the pink skin;
Slowly, painfully;
The forever replaces the transient.
How strange!
I'd called the scent of your skin home,
When it was just another layer to be shed.
Is the scent of your skin, yours?