I like November.
I like when the sky turns white and it’s bright and blinding
I like how the naked limbs of the dusty gray trees twist
their slim gnarled fingers to the tissue paper sky.
And I like the masochistic cold and the isolation that is blown into your bones
on the pins and needles of the breaths of a bitter wind.
And then that coldness melts, drip by drip, as you lay me by the fire in that black, royal blue, bright night. Your fingers chipped the ice off my bones and burnt ruddy red back into my cheeks.
I won’t forget a green like that my whole life long.
that green that smoldered.
5 months today, and the only doubts I have are in myself.
and oh how quickly I’ll turn them on you.
it’s lonely, November.
It’s full of you but less and less full with every consecutive blink.
I can see the future like I can see November settling outside my window.
And I can feel it too, most of the time.
But with the cold white sky comes the wind and the doubts
and my quick fingers and straining ears can’t convince them to go away.
I can only wait with my eyes and my arms for December.
5 months and 26 days.