Last Page

It's too cold to be September
My summer is gone, brutally unforgotten,
missing in action but by choice.
The rain has come.
Maybe to cleanse us,
convince us to change.
But I don't feel brand new.

I'm clinging to the last page of a novel,
resolute that it won't end yet.
It can't.
Endings mean beginnings, yes, but
I loved that story.
It was too good and
I refuse to wash it away,
simply because the seasons inflict their change.

This is my reality to create.
So I sit on the last page of this long forgotten memoir.
Waiting.