november

metal
nickle
cold and fickle

put down your promises
pack up your plans for winter
patch up that hole you've put in my november

take these broken bones off my bed
they make pretty stacks of wood yet sickening stacks of red
these walls now drip and drip with every word never said

up in the air, sits my paper moon
she's wrapped so tightly in her smock
so very strong, so very not

no longer the string used to sew her tomorrow to today
for now I am nothing more than the fray
i've become the maybe she hides between her tuesday

buckets of nothing in every corner
baskets of faith hang as a i morn her
begging myself to remember that it is not i that tore her