November is
the saddest month because
it is
not quite winter and
my bones are
not quite used to the bite of
the wind
or the ache
of missing
someone

While the
sound of a
guitar trickles
through the emptiness just
like
raindrops tracing lines
down my window; each note
a falling tear

And I paint
here, nestled
in soft gray
light and thick sweaters that
bunch
at the elbow and cocoon
cold pink skin

Pink, the same
color as paint as
the paper bunches in its
wake
with color seeping into empty
fibers
and I think that it is
ugly, maybe,
and that it
is far from perfect

But the paper will
soon smooth over again and I
tell myself
that
someday, life too will go
back to
the way it once was before
you were

Gone