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november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind

Interwoven

Words got stuck
floating over the breakfast table,
now forever interwoven with
the scents of coffee and raspberry jam.

© Novemberchild
photo credit:  via Pinterest
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All Mine

This spot,
right above your
collarbone
where I bury
my face
when I need
to feel safe

– all mine.

 

© Novemberchild
photocredit: via Pixabay

First Snow

You have never
felt the magic of
those first, big snowflakes
unless you raised
your face to welcome
their cold dance on your skin
(admit, you tried to catch
at least one
on the tip of your tongue),
and your hands
turn numb from
throwing snowballs.

 

© Novemberchild
photo credit: via homeopathicassociates.com

Who?

Who are you going to be
after the final cadences
of love have died away?

Who are you going to be
when your forever
has lost its echo?

Who are you going to be
when wide-eyed innocence
finally acknowledges the scars?

Who are you going to be
when the sum of your experiences
feels too much like failure?

 

© Novemberchild
photo credit:  via walldevil.com

November Night

The lights of early
Christmas decorations
fail to gloss over
the tristesse of
a world soaked in grey.

Old townhouses leak
history, kitchen odours,
and a need for repairs,
as the cold light of
telly screens flickers behind
curtainless windows.

A shadow silhouette
fades in and out
of November fog,
the sound of their footsteps
strangely muted.
Nothing feels
lonelier than a city
on a winter night.

© Novemberchild
photo credit: Azifaral via Deviantart

Rosary

I run them through my fingers,
all those flickers of hope,
the beads on my rosary
of unfinished stories.

 

 

© Novemberchild
photo credit via The Catholic Company

Carefree

I carve feelings into pebbles,
and fill my lungs with
the sighs of a salty sea,
my keepsakes
of a carefree day.

 

© Novemberchild
photo credit via Todd Blumgardner

Opposition

I do not know
when my dreams
became your kingdom,
turning a blind eye
as you trimmed my creativity
from torrent to drizzle,
and my wings to fit
your comfort zone.

There seems to be
no middle ground
between your need to control
and my desire for freedom,
so all we have turned into
are two stubborn generals
taking a stand
on opposite hills.

 

© Novemberchild
photo credit: via InsideIIM
in response to   The Sunday Whirl Wordle 322

Missed Opportunities

You were the inventor of the art of
rebelling against your privileges
while driving a Beemer.
You wore your contradictions
unapologetically, and in style,
leaving me incredulous, and
more than a bit breathless.

California sun in your eyes,
a grin to die for, easygoing
to the point of carelessness.
How I wish our insurgencies
had been better timed.
I kept the necklace you gave me,
and this nagging uncertainty
in my heart.

 

© November child
photo credit: via  computing.ece.vt.edu

September Sky

My favourite cold blue sky,
devoid of clouds
and chemtrails,
as if even the ever
busy human has curbed
his disregard for nature,
not daring to soil
the virginal beauty.

Cherishing our star’s
victory as it defies its
shallow angle, and
-in a last uprise-
graces us with the glow
of summer memorised.

 

© Novemberchild
photo credit: hjl via Flickr

Resignation

Dressed in resignation
and chained by a sense of duty,
we brace ourselves for
being penned up in a room
full of people wearing
importance and faux smiles
in their chase of acknowledgement
and admiration.

I adore you, you know,
you are so much better at
making the best
of any given situation,
mingling gracefully
while I, ever pensive,
try to get to the bottom
of my aversion for
social gatherings like this.

So I cling to my glass
of whatever is fashionable
at the moment, in the hope
it will drown my non-compliant
notions, and keep my inner rebel
under lock and key.

 

© Novemberchild
photo credit:  artist unknown
The Sunday Whirl Wordle 318

Disintegrate

Trust has woven
its delicate strands
around neglected
promises and
long-forgotten declarations,
stretched thin in
too many places, ready
to disintegrate at any moment.

 

© Novemberchild
photo credit: Christian Holmér via Flickr

Tentative

My approach to
what ended up being us
has always been
an overcautious one;
tentative steps
forward, followed
by hasty retreats.
If you were anything
like me, we would
probably still be trapped
behind walls of hesitation.

 

© Novemberchild
photo credit: via pinterest

Tentative

Last Hold

The night sky’s amazing
protocol of the past
beckons with a surge
of flickering lights from
uncountable distant suns,
that might just be ghostly
messages of the vanished.

And, as always,
my eccentric mind
is doing somersaults,
dwelling on my own
sort of fancy philosophy.

What if we are the Last Hold,
our galaxy the last light
in a dark, and empty Universe.
Drifting, all alone,
but still drifting,
defying the laws of physics
through pure human stubbornness,
unaware until the last light
has winked out?

 

© Novemberchild
photo credit: H. Heyer via wiki commons

Crucified

 

Without the slightest hesitation
you crucified me
for your moment of glory.

I did not see it coming,
which stings more
than the actual betrayal.

© Novemberchild

 

photo credit: Mika Hiironniemi via Flickr

Moonlight

They put up new streetlights
in a neighbouring street, those that seem
to imitate moonlight, and I have to say,
it is kind of scary.

Now the street has the lighting
of a gloomy film noir,
where faint white light
accentuates all those dark recesses,
and you scream ‘Fool’ in your head
when some irrelevant character
saunters down the road, merrily whistling.

A true city girl, I don’t do
moonlight unless it is in
a romantic setting.

 

© november child
photo credit: The Central Rappahannock Library

INFJ

My favourite defence mechanism
is hiding behind your shield of
extroversion.

Thanks, Darling. I appreciate it.

 

© november child
photo credit: via Introvert’s Circle

Footsteps

I look at the trail
our footsteps left
in the sand, and think,
any scout worth his money
would surely know
everything about us.

Your long strides,
so forceful, and steady,
focused on your destination,
rarely straying
from your chosen path.

In such stark contrast
to my chaotic tracks.
Always two steps
where you need one,
dancing from left to right,
stopping here and there
for another object
of distraction,
finally running
in an effort to keep up.

 

© november child
photo credit: via Pinterest

Lonely

The flow of your dissatisfaction
at being single meanders
through your sentences,
staining them with the cold blues
of an angry sea.

But memory is a highway,
and we all take different exits.
My only peripherally involved
mind remembers all too clearly
what yours wants to suppress.

They are all there,
at your disposal
if you would accept them.
The memories of
those countless nights
you showed up at my door,
so ready to drown your misery
in a bottle of wine.
The many times I covered you,
and your pain with a blanket
after you fell asleep
on my couch.

Mostly I recall your eyes,
and this frightening emptiness
that seemed to have
burnt itself onto your retinas.

Do you not see that you
always were at your loneliest
whenever you were
in one of your relationships?

 

© november child
photo credit: via uMad

Personal Space

Read up on proxemics, stranger,
my amygdala just had a fit.
There is a clearly defined
area you should not invade,
it is called personal space.
We are not in an elevator,
yet you are mere millimetres
from having to marry me.

So back off,
you are standing
too close.

 

© november child
photo credit: via The Guardian

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