September,
you’re the light brown on the edge
of grandfather’s diary,
where the ink spills into crumbs
at the moth eaten margins.
My desire to hold on
to his words are a
laterally inverted
image of his intent to
forget his hardest days,
which is to say, I mirror
his grit, but not his courage.

September,
let’s make a scrapbook today
of the blue hilltop haunts and
city silhouettes you broke
your heart for, just so you could
leave a fragment at each place.
Is that why remembering
hurts in waves, one picture-
perfect moment at a time?
Should I be jealous of your
vacation being longer than mine?