Sins of September

Past summer, September,
we were born.
A season neither of us
has seen.
Autumn was waiting
at the end.
It’s on a different time zone
we haven’t been in.

Senses yearn, unfelt;
we don’t talk anymore.
Everybody’s talking.
Letters, souls disguised,
masked, given the benefit
of the undoubt.

It was tense. It got worse.
I left.
You wanted to hang me
for someone else’s crime.

In this land, borders blur.
Men are men. Women wicked.
Femme fatale your ego.
You like that don’t you?
(Mata Hari got shot.
This id is for you.)

Getting even is never easy.
You take as much as you give.
Justice collects its dues.
And September comes every year.