November

March. It's March again. I'm lonely. I'm okay with it. I can feel myself slipping back into my nostalgia phase of sepia memories with orange highlights and blue undertones.

We're crossing the bridge. I feel like Daddy's little girl again. I have returned back home. Pushed, not ripped out of your arms. It's March again, and I'm feeling empty with no purpose; a cloud that doesn't float quite so high or carry enough rainwater for any real intention.

Look over the bridge. Remember the glittering rust piles? Right now I'm feeling the old urge returning back. The yearning to lay down among the rusted bits of metal, the dusted chips of broken glass, and decay quietly along with everything else here.

It's March again. The trees are painted impasto style, not quite brown nor green. Maybe leaves will bloom again. Maybe everything will want to be alive again. It's March and I'm okay. My brain is clogged with memories; March fourteenth, the morning after my life changed. I stood along the rust piles sifting through eroded metal pieces with Dad that morning, thinking about- STOP.

That doesn't exist. It's March again. Remember what it's like to be alone? Loneliness in March was beautiful. I loved it solely for the reason that it severed my inhibitions and fueled my artistic drive. I felt all alone in the universe. I was content with dizzying myself in turpentine fumes and oil paint and being locked in an orange world. Remember orange? It was my lonely color, the color that I painted everything in after he left and I didn't get a chance- STOP.

It's orange. Let's go back to orange. Let's be okay. I am okay. It's March. I was only dreaming of summer. I woke up in March. But summer will come again.