Fall-ing

The plummet is certainly disorienting to the part of me that's covered in velcro. 

Then there's the part of me that fancies the cool side of the pillow and the ghostly brush of fallen leaves as they swirl up around my ankles when I turn down Waverly in October. My jeans hang an inch too long. Part of me weasels through a synchronistic nostalgia as their hem mashes between the brick and my shoe's rubber soul. That part of me lives next to the part of me that keeps the windows ajar and finds it oddly charming to be woken by the trash truck's strut-like barrel, smiling at the display of affinity as it hugs the sidewalk. The dawning brightness lasers to the floorboards with brilliance that makes noon seem dark. Of course, if noon is anything like the part of me that could dive into a bowl of miso soup fully clothed, it surely enjoys addiction to the mercy, wallows in the vulnerability, of watching a stylus catch the first groove of Pink Floyd's The Wall in a low-lit room, alone. 

As far as velcro goes, that part of me is covered in the soft side and it seems useless unless I find something prickly to marry.