archeologists brush dust away from bones,
like memories from empty homes.
here i sit among rubble and ruin,
amidst broken picture frames strewn.

this is the scene i remember the most.
my words are written, jagged,
in a notebook forgotten, ragged am i
as my eyes shine like broken glass.

my bones turn to rust, to dust.
i brush away my remains from this grave
of a home i no longer remember.
among portraits i am no longer a part of.

november comes around with its bells,
bellows loud that i am not welcome here.
it brings fallen petals of blood red rust.
i am stained with agony and painful lust.

for a time that does not forgive,
and as the cold sweeps in i know,
november is the time of sin, for me.
i was born in a time that does not forgive.

the picture frames will not let me back in.

i / am / absent / here