Late September smells of mown grass and damp air. It tastes like a mouth with a cigarette wedged between its lips and a boy who I wish was someone else. Standing in its humidity makes me think of you. I hope that the gusts of wind blowing through my hair drifted here from four thousand miles away, that you had once stood in the same current, and that it carries the wavelength of your voice. That it had flown through the spaces between your fingers and against my own. I hope that it carries thoughts of me, that the particles trapped in its waves carry the same heartache every cell stitched into my skin grieves. 

from fif/sixteen year old jules