Our conversations
over static telephone lines
with uncomfortable silences
dwindled and died in bittersweet emptiness
Like the mountain ebony of October
leaving a trail of woody scent
with its dying white blooms
But it will be
forever an eternal September to me
creeping like a silent fever
On nights dark and moonless
reaching out to me in its nocturnal sorrow
While the long and forlorn shadows of August
falls in little sprinkles on my bed
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