October,
you’re the backyard harvest
of homegrown goodbyes,
packed into cardboard
boxes with holes in them,
like pumpkins from the patch.
You’re the sleepy sunbeam
that throws longer shadows
on questions that were dug up
from their graves
as the sun hits the horizon.
October,
you’re the diary I’ll burn
at my funeral because
it houses too much honesty-
bone melting rain and
pressed fall leaves from when
heartbeats throbbed iridescent blue.
Orange was my favourite
colour for decades before
I realised that it is
the colour of goodbyes too.

October,
why didn’t you tell me sooner?