You would be September,
and I will be May.
And somewhere in the middle,
we'd meet along the way.

As if I am a stranger
passing you by
gazing through your
blue tinted eyes

I could be your secret
and you will be my muse.
Writing how the seasons will end,
until the cold comes through.

So you will just be September,
and nothing more,
and I will be May
with the hopes it's like before.