It’s November
and my memories are melting
like little stalactites
on the eaves of
the little homes where
we fucked on dirty couches
and woke up in the dark.

It’s November
and the cold now
leaves an ache
where my bones
were once warm like
chicken broth
and apple cider.

It’s November
and I’m wondering
if souls are real
and if I’m feeding mine right
as the gin wraps around
my throat
and pulls me straight.

It’s November
and I’m on your wine-stained
chapped lips
and your hoodie sweater
and your terrible records;
I mean, who listens
to Cream anymore?

It’s November,
as I’ve said many times,
and I’ve written your name
under my fingernails
but I don’t look
at my hands anymore
since you left.

11/25/2015

Posted on 11/25/2015
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