The last September
On quiet September days, that’s when it feels like you’ve died all over again.
And I replay that dark record over in my head. I recall the last September you were with us, posing for a picture on my birthday. Years of sadness coming through the pores of your skin, so sallow and drawn. Your eyes dimly saying, “I’m leaving soon”. Still you mustered up a smile, posing. Posing as one person, but deep down, another.