Lately all I’ve been thinking about is November, And I’ve been wondering whether winter is a season Or a state of mind.
Because my words become less golden,
And more akin to the pale yellow of a wintry day.
I lose my spark when I stop lighting sparklers,
and my fears are more arresting on a dark December night.
And because my hands are cold,
I look to whatever boy has placed himself across the table
And stare into him as if he is a hearth when he is only a television screen,
Broadcasting flames that I only believe will provide warmth
if I actively lie to myself.
I spend so much time warming my hands in front of this false fire
That I forget to hug my friends.
I have taken up the habit of rubbing my hands together vigorously,
Hoping someone will notice and intertwine their fingers with mine.
But all I ever accomplish is creating adding friction to my life
And refusing to let anyone else in.
It seems like there is never enough light in the day to finish what I want to start
So I just never start anything at all.
I sit and dream of waking up and feeling alive
But if the flowers can die for a season, so can I.
I’ll see you in March.