Warm November

It’s November, and 70 degrees at three a.m.

I remember you best when it’s cold,

when the stars are bright and cut the sky,

when my breath is exhausted plumes,

and the sweetness of bitterness bites my skin.

It’s hard to remember you when it’s warm like this,

when life should be asleep and grey, not green still.

It’s hard to remember you when the sun is still a friend.

In the darkness, in the cold, when we held tight to keep it away.

In the darkness we held tight to keep away the coldness of the past.

We were warm in a cold November night, and there was a spark.

But the spark didn’t catch, no flame came, and we went seperate ways.

I don’t know why I cling to your memory. You were the one who left.

But that moment was so sweet, so wonderous, so perfect.

I never knew it’s like ever again.

And now November is warm, and I am denied the last bit of magic.

In December, maybe, I’ll call down the cold ghosts of paradise.

Maybe in sleep, the winds will blow, the leaves will dance,

and you’ll be there in my arms forever.

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