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she can hear the white noise,
she can feel her boots crunch in the leaves,
the deep feeling in her chest,
a melancholy brewing of the last summer,
where he is her sun and she is his moon.
but we are in summer no longer,
the crimson leaves fall from the trees,
and the banana sweets linger on her teeth,
from halloween the week previous,
oh of course, its november again.
she stares into the sky and it’s 5pm now,
her book in hand is on page 3
she is no longer his moon nor was she ever,
because whilst he shone all day and night,
she was left waiting,
waiting for november again.
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