She fell in love with November,
for the way the sun shined down on
decaying leafs
and chilling temperatures danced upon the tips of her fingers,
providing her with a perfect balance between life and death.
She presented herself to the world in this manner,
always happy and bright, but never content,
as days carried on cracks in her skin led to trails of pieces on the ground.
Her eyes often flickered between a beautiful orange and a sickly brown.
Her heart, as much as it wanted to be warm was deafly cold.
She was a mystery.
And as December rolled in and the world froze over in darkness,
so did she.
The only light in her life was the moon.
how badly I wish she could've loved a month like June.