november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind




Your voice is purest silk,
wrapping soft, glossy
tendrils around the left side
of my brain,
expertly cutting me off
from logical thought.


© november child
photo credit: artist unknown

Little Death

Yesterday I died a little.

Now I am concerned,
as I do not know
how much life
I have already used up,
and how much leeway
I am granted.

I am thinking,
I may have to stop
this reckless behaviour,
take a more prudent
course of action,
and stop dying a little
every time I think of you.

© november child
photo credit:



Voices have seeped into crumbling walls,
repeating forgotten conversations.

Laughter is memorised in bits of flaky wallpaper,
and is occasionally heard drifting on mouldy air.

Old arguments have settled into parquet,
and are reenacted in the creaking of ancient floorboards.

Emotional residue clings to rooms
abandoned a long time ago.


© november child


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