The Lonely Air

Autumn approaches like a train. I look into my chest to find a sweater that still fits over the pandemic bulk. Sulking. The air is at best comfortable. At worst, more expensive. I see my future at a book signing. The Black bookstore has a name no one knows but those from Ethiopia. Fatigues. Long sleeves. Black soup potions. The air is fair like the hair I lost. One day it seems as if all things are possible. Another day, my thoughts are held hostage by Americana. The lonely air feels heavy, like racism or hate. My heart longs for the chances at chance meetings. I can’t find myself in the yearbook or in conversations. I stand still with coffee sitting in the sill. I wait for the transformation. Reds, amber, orange and brown. I shop for sofas and loft spaces in different places. I write painstakingly about lovemaking rituals. I know nothing of meditation but my chakras are aligned. My sign is in retrograde of a planet unfounded. My days are dark as night. My nights are sleepless. The air speaks to me and I turn my back. I am caught between the space time continuum of September and October. In a fantasy I sleep until my heart finds solace. I wake up only to find that the air is still lonely.

Every year around this time I get this feeling. I don’t want to call it strange. I call it an overt feeling. I feel the air, the gray, the time. I feel the window of light closing. Is it just me, sensitive to the change in seasons? The air feels lonely. It feels like the Earth is sad. It seems like the air is in need of friendship. I don’t know, I just get this feeling. Is it because I feel like I didn’t take advantage of summer? Is it because another season of cold weather will be here soon and possibilities of snow? It is around this time of the year I do my best writing. It is also the time of year I think about leaving America for a longitude and latitude more befitting. America is not my home. Autumn is.


Fiction. Podcasting. Poetry. Deep thoughts. Writing while Black.

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