Will I last November?
I don’t think
it shameful, losing out to a month.
This cold month,
teetering on the edge of the winter,
always has a victory.
the first snow, and toys with the first kiss of white;
my change will lead us somewhere,
and you will know when
the dark and the cold,
the forever white.
Will I last the conversation?
We are both dusted with pain,
Hunched over at the kitchen table,
Coffee steam rising up from the cup,
fading out fast.
It’s not shameful to
Lose a conversation.
Playing equally, half logic, half some sad
everyone has to lose eventually,
It’s not like the words stick.
Right after you speak them,
they float away like steam.
With a hard truth,
November guides the conversation.
“It’s only going to get worse.”