Our map seems stained
with the ink of Shakespeare's pen
dripping into our future,
Time plays with the plot
And we all must journey apart,
until we are together.

We wrestle time,
knocking out the days with patience
and mighty yawning.
Between us the fields of grass spread out
wider than fifty days on a calendar.

But at dusk, you are the star of my silver screen,
We unpack our minds like suitcases and
Move into the future together,
While apart.
Vanishing with a click,
Your goodnights soak the wind

In November
Time holds us apart,
Weary, but for the fullness of
December’s side-by-side mornings,
with toast crumbs and coffee breath
and kisses, anyway.

With hands full of promise,
you hold onto me and
we grow deeper and deeper
together despite a dreary
part of November.

Smoke dances out of my mouth
and through the cold November air.
A lit cigarette in the dark of night
sparks a flame bright enough for me
to see past my own doubt
for one more night...
Or maybe the smoke reassures it.
I can't breathe cause my lungs are failing me
but I think maybe I deserve it,
I am in love with the reduction in my lung capacity,
in my vision, enhanced by vertigo,
I'll never know what's beyond
the veil of smoke,
wrapping itself around me as if trying to
console me
because it figured out that I'm afraid of
what lives in the dark, afraid of
what lies in the nightmares that I still don't remember.
Walk an empty sidewalk, 2:00 a.m.
Walk back and forth, music blaring
into my ears, let me block out the world
for all it's worth.
I contemplate taking half an hour
and getting a drink with the 2 dollar bills
in my pocket,
but then I notice my fingers are burning.
I look down,
I'm at the filter.
Wrapping my jacket tighter around my torso,
I use the almost-gone cigarette to light another one
and I start walking.
I'm not sure if what I see in front of me
is smoke entirely, or if it's mixed with
whatever breath I have left.

Inky darkness fills the late afternoons
And doesn't retreat until well into the mornings
November rises, standing slowly taller
And carries arm-loads of damp, chill days
Into December’s crystalline, grasping reach.

Again I'm sitting at my parent's home
nothing changed so far
putting the desk in front of me
and the furniture behind
like it was back in the old days.

I listen to the ticking of our pendulum clock,
bought by my grandfather and given to my dad
when he was around the age I am now,
while the rain keeps falling
like it was back in the old days.

Back in the old days
I dreamed of so many things
still full of wishes, heart at ease
like it only could have been by a child
watching the november rain.

Through your backyard smile
I can see a gaping hole
The flaw in the plan
The strange midnight chimes
Bringing out in me
the old November knives

there's a kind of hangover
that starts with grey days
and cold nights

but there's a certain clarity
to biting air and grey skies
with snow on the wind