Mid September

Something in my fingertips tells me it’s time.
Mid September brings a breeze, a wet and wild extract.
It’s the printing of your pupil inside mine,
you carved signs upon my grid sixteen long years back.
Oh! I travel in time
like a skin made calendar
telling me when, where and how
a few years back.
I can tell it’s time
like an instinct almanac
brings old senses back to life.
All of the moments that we had are a standing watermark,
brightens up my eyes with a fluorescent spark,
makes my vision quick and sharp like an owl in the dark,
but dismantles my soul into many parts.
When a soul is scattered into space
you are left with marks upon your face
and the chance to sprinkle love out in every direction.
You made up a special word that could describe
the extraordinary thrill of that stunning blast.
It’s engraved beneath the dermis of the thighs
with a permanent technique that remais intact.
All of the moments that we had are a standing watermark,
brightens up my eyes with a fluorescent spark,
makes my vision quick and sharp like an owl in the dark,
but dismantles my soul into many parts.
When a soul is scattered into space
you are left with marks upon your face
and the chance to sprinkle love out in every direction.
When a soul is scattered into space
you are left with marks upon your face
and the chance to sprinkle love out in every direction.