I look up at most the moon in orange,
and I remember
My life's movement in cycles that point
to September.
I remember the cycles I rested and
healed
From the three spins I spent with you,
off of my wheel,
and I wish you were here now to see the
moon rise,
It's blonde glow just hiding in ginger
disguise.
It seems strange that I'd mean that,
and strange that I'd write.
Your memory's inseparable from thoughts
of the night.
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