I dreamed that my hands caressed your smile, as they once did, that my body trembled in your presence and recovered joys— not distant; merely lost. I dreamed, I dreamed of that time when fear did not ravage the nights; I dreamed of you, beside me and of a body that breathed life to the rhythm of your embrace. Grey September morning, where the dream abandons me, where merely by moving my hollow fingers, I inscribe a harsh, dark, unfinished verse, born from the void where your kisses were, and my own heartless flesh.
# Grey September The month comes creeping in like smoke, soft-fingered, without announcement. The sky forgets its blue contract, settles into a compromise of ash. Everything slows. The leaves don't fall— they hesitate, then drift, then pause mid-air as if they've changed their minds about the ground. The rain arrives in whispers, not in sheets. Even the birds sing differently now, their calls wrapped up in cotton, muffled by the weight of something we have no name for yet. The light falls sideways through the trees, and where it touches, nothing gleams— it merely marks a place where brightness has grown tired and taken rest. September walks like someone who has learned to love an empty room, who finds a strange and crooked peace in all that fades and goes unseen. The grey is not a sadness here. It is a benediction, slow and sure— a closing of the fists around the year, a gentle letting-go of all we were.
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