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.
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?
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.
I run them through my fingers,
all those flickers of hope,
the beads on my rosary
of unfinished stories.
I carve feelings into pebbles,
and fill my lungs with
the sighs of a salty sea,
my keepsakes
of a carefree day.
november child 