November

… and then one morning I awoke and it
was the end of everything that had come
before. The countless leaves down from the knurled
sycamore try their hardest to hide the
evidence that we walked there together.

Under my pale skin there is a fire,
while inside, the hearth lay cold and empty
but for where rain finds its way in and lies
puddled on brick the color of dried blood.
This month is an ax: leaden gray, and sharp.

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