September In My Bones, Between My Teeth

September, you live in my childhood bedroom. 

You smell of dew on the grass on a Monday morning, and every time you whisper in my ear,

I hear the mourning doves call my name. 

September, thinking of you brings tears to my eyes, the lump in my throat the nostalgia you always carry with you. 

You are the final threads of girlhood, threatening to snap even though I beg you to hang on. 

September is the final drop of hope, 

Shaking an empty can into your open mouth, hoping to swallow every last trace of summer 

And the warmth of living life with no inhibitions. 

My poor, orphaned August dreams. There is no room for them now.

September is the beginning of a deep sadness settling into the concave of my chest, 

No reason for its presence other than the fact that the days are slowly getting shorter. 

September, I always come back to you like an ex-lover, unable to move on, 

Refusing to live a life without you despite all the pain you wreak upon me. 

I speak to you, September, like you are my old best friend. 

Let’s meet at the field one more time for old-time’s sake.

And then we can walk to the coffee shop down the road, footsteps in parallel with each other, hands almost brushing. 

My wrist twitches as muscle memory threatens to interlace our fingers. 

I refrain; 

That is not who we are anymore. 

Not yet autumn, not summer anymore. Simply September. 

There is something comforting in the way you don’t change with every year that passes by. 

Not the parts of you that make you who you are, anyway. 

This cadence we fall into after every August is dependable; 

You are like catching my breath for the first time in forever.

I want to remember you this way, September, 

As the warm glow of the sun that stains my walls golden on a Friday afternoon. 

I want to remember you fondly, 

Absentmindedly tracing my fingers on your back, occasionally spelling out

I love you. 

I wish you would never leave, September. I want to live in you forever. 

I love the way my mouth whispers your name, 

September,

Like it’s a secret kept between only you and me. 

September, I whisper. 

I hear the rustle of leaves on the trees as a breeze passes by. I know,

This is you calling me back.

September, I whisper.

At dusk, the owls begin to sing. Your voice again. 

September, I whisper. 

Children laughing down the street, bikes clattering onto the sidewalk, the start of a new school year.

September.

It’s quiet.