I always feel restless between the seasons.

Like now. When the trees shed their fiery leaves, and the birds fly away, like old memories. I always feel like I should be changing too. Like I should get up and fly somewhere else too, and never stop. The earth is shifting in her cycles, and is not easily defined. And I, too, feel the shift. The uncomfortable awkwardness.

I lay in the road, being a medium between the contrast of the still-warm pavement and the chilly night air, him and his guitar sitting next to me. He fiddles idly with the strings, but I can tell his mind is somewhere else.

“I don’t understand why you have to go…” he says, sadly.

There will always be things he won’t understand, but I don’t tell him this.

“I know. But it will be short, and then I’ll be back. And it will be the same. Like you had never even missed me.”

His brow tightens. His fingers seem to be trying to unweave, on the guitar strings, the web I am leaving. But I have to go.

I always feel restless between the seasons.