J. Found in a pad, long since forgotten.

Here in the fourth season of our discontent
where daylight has diminished beyond all recognition,
the promise of rain reminds me of the tears still left to cry
We were meant to grow old you and I,
Kings and Queens of our own destiny
Instead,
we stand here on the edge of our existence,
forever trapped a September away from October,
dwelling on the faded reflection of a pleasant dream,
a dream I shared with you
Where we were skimming stones over fresh morning dew
and the first morning light warmed our faces
Now
as I walk alone
it just hurts my eyes
as Monday and Tuesday bleed into one