Dear Diary: Letter for an Old Boyfriend

bronzeleaves

Dear old boyfriend,

I found your emotions typed neatly on a piece of yellowing paper.
I read the contents of your heart in the A-B-C’s of your unsophisticated language.
In those whirling-twirling, upside-down and lopsided world we called “our world”, I was yours and you were mine.
I have listened to the relentless words upon words from your lips.
You whispered some nonsensical dreams that I didn’t mind at all.

And I had heard them in the hundreds hours we shared. I have felt them through your fingers.
Then you came, and you have come, and you made me glad. You made me mad about you.
We spoke about life, though we must’ve sounded pathetic.
Did we have some memories then? Here and there, have you ever looked at them? Searched for them, deep in your mind?
Then, you remember. I, too, remember a part of us. The way we were.
I called you ‘my beloved’ and you let me. You let me.
I let you submerged in my ambiguity and I called it LOVE.

Ever yours,

D. Yustisia 05/28/15

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The World According to Autumn

Autumn loves vibrant colors. She enjoys wearing her crimson red, golden yellow, orange galore, and not so subtle-brown leaves. Autumn loves to show off among the trees. She enjoys the calm stroke of the breeze in the morning and the light cold rain in the afternoon. Sometimes, she bathes in the warmth of the sun and lingers leisurely under the blue sky. Autumn is boastful. She’s the prettiest among the the seasons, and autumn surely knows. She makes sure people would stop and gaze her amazingly. And when autumn moves, she’s letting go the burdens that she carries for the world. Then the leaves would fall, fall, fall, back to earth where they belong.

Autumn Leaf

Autumn Leaf

Autumn Leaf

Autumn Leaf

Autumn Leaves

Miss Dickinson’s Autumn

I didn’t know what Emily Dickinson saw when Autumn beckoned  her to write this poem. Maybe it’s the same thing I saw today.

 

AUTUMN

The morns are meeker than they were,
The nuts are getting brown;
The berry’s cheeck is plumper,
The rose is out of town.
 
The maple wears a gayer scarf,
The field a scarlet gown.
Lest I should be old-fashioned,
I’ll put a trinket on.
 

Autumn Berries

The Road to Autumn

Scattered Leaves