Prena Poetry

sometimes in september. i hear you.
even if i know that you aren’t here anymore. then there is this urge to climb up the thorns, break down these walls and reach out for the harmony. but at the same time. being alive isn’t the same as wanting to live in house without walls and watch a pianist perform through the glass. being alive isn’t so much like existing. or perhaps in a parallel world, it maybe the same, as watching you create
symphony.

still, sometimes in September.
i feel you.
and that is the favourite part.

i feel you fall and sway like the autumn.
i feel you laugh and cry and breathe and fade. even if I know,
feeling isn’t just so much like touching your skin and telling that you are real,
at least to my senses that says so.

but how many septembers do I need to put in? to tell myself that you are no longer here
to stay. how many falls,

to know i fell on the leaves and crushed it, creating a rush of a harmony that you once left incomplete, somewhere in the softness of this september.