Her and I,
Counted raindrops on window panes,
Singing songs and counting chains,
Which locked up secrets.

Her and I,
Ate popsicles which melted and left stains,
Sometimes I still see them when it rains,
Carpeting the cement.

Her and I,
Picked up fried caterpillars dying on the stones,
And contemplated whether or not bugs had bones,
We were silly back then.

Her and I,
Opened umbrellas and pretended we could fly,
Mocking the tune of the birds in the sky,
When the sun didn't shine.

Her and I,
Painted our toes to match different themes,
Questioning identity and things which seem,
Unknown to the blind eye.

I,
Now write poetry and remember,
That little girl of September,
Her and I.