November has arrived.

I am waiting for the skin
on my knuckles to crack.
I could go out, but I will stay
and wait or my hair to dry.
When my lips become chapped,
I have lost nothing.

This is a ballroom
and I am spinning alone,
though arms await me.
I have forgotten how to be held,
though I remember how it feels.

When the buzz fades and the
lighting bugs hum,
It is something I hold onto
and keep for myself.