A fleeting thought of September

On the first day of September,
I try to think her voice is just like September.
On the second day of September,
I believe my voice would be September to her.
Imprisoned like this in September, the two voices
floating around together at the same time with different hour.
As if they want to be death row inmates
while not waiting for October to come,
become September leaves that are still green
And are hanging just like they will go through December,
As if waiting for November that would never come.
Ah! Her lips might be soaked with September.
On the third day of September,
I cover them softly with my December lips.

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