Lives fall away like the leaves on the branches
And our bodies become cold as the snow that paints the grass a white canvas.
Copious hoards of cicadas flipped over in the heat of the summer sun
And those not passed search on for new beginnings with the blooming of spring.
The only thing unchanging about the seasons,
Is the death of all things beautiful.

The only thing unchanging about the world,
Is the beauty in all its brokenness.
Every continent, a broken piece of a whole,
Floating on the river of Mother Earth's blue blood.
The world has been broken
Long before these continents were Pangaea.
Its entropic tendencies were
The only thing slightly complete.
Through the lens of childlike eyes
It’s easy to see the fault lines.
And adolescence only instantiates
The portrait of cosmic nostalgia;
Of aches of realization
And memoirs of connected continents.

The heart remembers stale memories of wholeness,
In contrast to sharp knowledge of brokenness.
These pieces of the world called continents,
As well as the broken pieces of learned hearts,
Have value encapsulated
In their simple individuality.
As I pick up shards to make
A crystal of broken understanding,
I look up and can’t help but notice
Two cool, maybe blue, eyes.

The only thing unchanging about your eyes,
Was the cold beauty of the moon reflected within them.
The moon which appears
As the sun falls from the sky,
Like eyelids right after
You went unconscious from overdose.
“Let’s blow trees so our brain cells fall away faster than leaves.”
That's the first thing you said when I met you in autumn.
This was just a preview
Of the life-changing muses from your tongue.

Like how you said whenever you wake up,
You feel like you're in a parallel world.
Or when you told me your spirit animal was Sylvia Plath,
And I knew we'd have an issue.
An issue that went deeper than I imagined
Deep because,
Your veins were the constellations.
And with hatred for love,
You lacerated each connection,
So there was no affection between stars,
Confiscating from God's pocket the only thing.
That kept the sky at night somewhat beautiful.
They were the backdrop for your eyes.
Cold empty moons.
But I loved them all the same.
I was empty too.

And like you I was struggling,
To pick up my broke crystals,
So I could arrange them into the continents,
Back when they were connected.
But I always get stuck looking,
At the beauty preserved in those pieces
And I’m torn between which is better
Individualistic beauty,
Or harmonious connections.

Maybe I should be content with changing seasons.
Or just stare longer at your eyes.
Stand on Mother Nature's broken heart,
Accepting every beautiful imperfection.