Hey, September,
I know it’s untamed—
this habit of leaving.
But I’d break every rule
if it meant you’d stay.

I’d tumble with aging leaves;
follow the road where it calls,
if it kept you here,
even knowing I’d lose.

But I see you staring past me,
eyes on November’s quiet call—
where shadows sink low,
blue bruises on walls.
Where nothing lingers,
soft or lost—
which...