I am lost November,
with the breath of winter
at the hairline of its neck.
I am the blood orange that
sours a little too soon.
A thirty day intuition
to a season of good will.
A blip on the side of
the road that melts easily
out of sight, out of mind.
An unremembered instance
on a torn index page
of a forgotten, spineless book.
I am lost November.
Remember me the instance
when you feel unremembered too.
// an
I really feel sorry for November. It must be hard to be the precursor to December.
