something, someone—
i trace my fingers
over the scar we made
in the tree by the river.
your voice in the hollow:
a song you left behind.
like picking leaves
by hand,
a touch too rough—
i should have known
(i couldn’t have known)
the seasons don’t mix.
the wind fills the space
where my arm met
your waist—
and summer pink recedes,
leaving me with
september blue.