VidaVivido
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𝑺𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒎 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒓, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒐𝒍 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒆𝒛𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒖𝒎𝒏.
𝑨 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒅𝒃𝒚𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆, 𝒂 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔.
He calls me September when he looks deep into my eyes. He calls me September when he looks away in annoyance.
And when we meet again,
after all the seasons between us,
he pulls me into his arms and whispers-
"𝑺𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓, 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆."
Perhaps I was never just a month to him.
Perhaps I was every ending that carried the promise of beginning again.
Perhaps I was September-making him warm and cold at the same time.
Or perhaps I was simply a 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏
he is trying, as a 𝒎𝒂𝒏, to understand.
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𝑨 𝒑𝒐𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒃𝒚 𝑽𝒊𝒅𝒂𝑽𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒐,
𝑺𝒆𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔