It is late fall.
The last brown leaves are crumbled and torn.
And the final days of summer are in the clutch
Of the forte
Cold weather’s riddle.
Fading is the light.

My heart was innocent and light,
And likely to fall.
It was not a riddle
That my spirit was likely to be torn.
But your charm was forte,
And thus, I came into your clutch.

Your foot taps against the clutch
Of your `66 Mustang, as the last rays of light
Illuminate the dust swirling in the forte
Radio music. The singer’s last note begins to fall.
Your old receipts line the floor, torn;
Trying to read them now would be a riddle.

The memories are a riddle.
The flashbacks make my hands clutch
Around the torn
Fragments of my fall.
Black is the light;
My nightmares are forte.

The sound of the crash is forte.
The momentum buffets our bodies, which riddle;
Backwards we fall.
Each other’s hands we clutch.
But suddenly, the pressure is too light.
From my own, your hand is torn.

The scars lining my heart are torn,
And the pain is forte.
There is no light
And the end of life’s riddle.
We are merely within the clutch
Of being about to fall.

My light and fragile heart is torn;
As I fall, my screams are forte.
The fragments are a riddle, and slowly, like water, they trickle out of my clutch.