the monster at your door

Will I last November? I don’t think

it’s shameful, losing to a month.

This cold month,

teetering on the edge of the winter,

always has a victory.

November knows

the first snow, and toys with the first kiss of white;

Says,

“my change will lead us somewhere,

and you will know when

we’ve arrived,

the dark and the cold,

the forever white.”

Will I last the conversation? We’re both dusted with pain,

Hunched over at the kitchen table,

Coffee steam rising up from the cup,

fading out fast.

It’s not shameful to

Lose a conversation. Playing equally, logic and some sad

diplomacy, reasoning; but

everyone has to lose eventually

and

It’s not like the words stick.

Right after you speak them,

they float away like steam.

With a hard truth,

November guides the conversation

November says,