Eylülzede

It was as if autumn had decided to speak in a human voice, quiet but persistent. The air smells of wet stone, and the moonlight hides in other people's eyes, as if it's shy about looking directly. Everything around breathes with losses that are not bitter, but inevitable, like the breath between words that no one ever spoke. The music rolls like a raindrop down a window: easy at first, then heavier, until it falls down along with the memory. In every sound, there's the coolness of September, in every chord, the weariness of knowing that both love, pain, and life itself always return to where everything began.