The air is that mid-autumn cool. It’s warmer than one part of you thinks it is, colder than another. It’s the kind of cold air that catches smells and sweeps them down the streets of the city. That dry air, ready to have anything else put into it. Longing.

The sky is dark with clouds. The city reflects that. On both sides of the river, buildings are dark: dark greys, navy blues, muted night shades even though the last of the sun is behind the clouds. Right along the north by northwestern horizon the sun cries out it’s last breath for the day, which condenses into fire on the glass of the murky buildings.

My sleeves are down. My arms are cold. Both of my eyes are open. The road is clear and the streetlamps are on. I understand that, for at least now, I am home.

Summer is for falling in love, with its long days and warm nights. Fall is for going home.

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