Eylülzede

The moon is hiding behind a cloud, as if it's ashamed to look at all this September madness. The air smells of dampness and something irreparable, something that happens once in a lifetime and leaves a mark on stone, on skin, on breath. Each raindrop sounds like a stranger's "sorry," and the city, soaked to the bone, seems to listen and remain silent, because it knows: no one will hear anyway. Love in such songs is not like tenderness; it's like a morning cold after a nite walk. It warms, burns, and quietly fades away, leaving behind the taste of iron and moonlight on your lips. And the heart, stubborn as an autumn wind, is still searching for that very gaze in which September once began.