Everything. It depends on the eyes. What do you see, when you look at myself?

What do the Autumn leaves comprehend of Autumn? What do the fallen understand of the beauty in that arrangement of colors? Fire is what leaves a trail of decay. Scattered debris, a teeming season of fossils, as you can indeed look at me as just another leaf.

Have I fallen? No one will raise me, if I have.

When I picked you up, I showed my strength. I showed colors.

Though, upon this time, have I decayed? Do I show no colors? Am I merely the leaf who cannot comprehend the Autumn, of that arrangement of beauty?

I’d be a sparkle drifting from your hair, or a drop of moisture from your shoulder. I’d be a smile fading into a frown.

Of every ocean I have cried to create, I’d be just another droplet among the rest. I’ll be a remainder, not a reminder. As no hero walks his path, without eventual departure, love only conflicts. Love restricts the freedom, binds the limbs, keeps the mind burdened by focus.

As more lies can be creative than the truth, I cannot stop without knowing the latter. To look through your eyes, advance to winter, to become not a fallen leaf, though as a passing chill of wind, I might remind you, and only you, of what I was. A child, becoming a man, to soon descend to a former immaturity. Though, in your mind, I could perhaps be raised.

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