I miss you.

These three words, among the most shameful strings in the language.
How could you miss me? You left.
That's true.
I leave. I'm seasonal. I'm like a tree.
That doesn't mean I don't miss the oak who held me.
Where I grew.
Where I watched the squirrels.
Where I changed colors.
Where I died.
Was I dead before I hit the ground?
I don't know.
But decomposing doesn't happen to the happily living.
Yet autumn seemed inevitable, again.