Cask I write nothing of beauty, not anymore. I try, for example, to write of the sky, "Buoyant pin cushions draped in chestnut and citrus, hung by someone still forgotten in their morning." It's Autumn, and every word thinks only of her. I loved her once, and she loves always, but never the same. I could open myself at the top and fill myself to the brim with her stories, until my sides were flooded with whiskey and apple cores, nothing left of the one I was made for. She held me in lace fingers for a time, but never as long as she now holds him. I write nothing of love, not completely. I might, for example, begin at the start. "Caught in the moment that stole the rest, hers was the quiet that replaced the stilted thunder in my heart." It's over, and every word cuts her name a little deeper. She was the rain, and I was the leaf, once, but not anymore.