November is back again,
wrapping her cold fingers around my throat,
pressing down on me short, snowless days on and on again.
I can’t meet her eyes, thinking of the last time we met—
The wild emptiness that raged within me
like a tornado along the plains,
and the rebellious plainness of my face.
The first deepest low— a champagne-stained kiss ripping sobs out of my chest like seeds from a pomegranate.
And worse,
impossible, irrevocable confessions
whispered into my mouth,
stunning me into silence and taking my voice away
remaining forever unreturned and deeply, agonizingly true.
Another November.
Another November,
but no hand entangling mine
eclipsing me with the skin of a lover
Another November,
but no gentle meeting of lips
in exchange for a small favor
Another November,
like a porcelain mask
with the painted face under
Another November…
Another November.