november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind



All Mine

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

– all mine.


© Novemberchild
photocredit: via Pixabay

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


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


Love Letter

Black ink on heavy,
cream coloured paper
should have made for
a beautiful love letter.

Unfortunately my hand refused
to create the calligraphy
my idea of beauty required.
Perfectionism is a curse.

I texted you.
Love didn’t mind.


© november child
photo credit: via Huffington Post


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


I drew a map for you
of the admittedly
long, and winding road
to my heart.

I even precisely marked
all the required stops,
where, for a moment,
you could have
simply appreciated
the journey,
enjoyed the pace, and
taken inventory
of what is ahead.

Should have been easy.


© november child
photo credit: Olivier Meoux via Flickr


I wish I did not crave
tracing the tattoo on your arm.
I wish the grey at your temples
did not make me want to
run my fingers through your hair.
I wish I could unfeel the trails
your fingertips burnt onto my skin.
I wish your smile
did not reach your eyes.

I wish the willingness
to throw my life away
for this insane infatuation
was not plainly written on my face.

You were my poison,
you still are my folly.


© november child
photo credit: source unknown



Sometimes you forget
your pretence of being human.
I hear the hum of
the Universe interlaced
with your voice,
and I can almost touch
golden rivers running
underneath your skin.

Sometimes your human body
is unable to fully contain you.
I see the most pleasing
white moonlight
leaking from your eyes,
and catch the scent of
cold starlight during
winter solstice.

And sometimes
I shed silken tears,
and submit to my fear
that this world is not enough
to hold you.

© november child
photo credit: Francisco Sánchez-Aedo Gálvez via Flickr



You, the imperturbable,
you, the advocate of
rectilinearity and clarity,
have embraced my
multifaceted brokenness.

I, of the lost faith,
I, the unbeliever,
born from contradictions
and scepticism,
pray for catharsis.


© november child
photo credit:  Polpolux via Flickr


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:



I drift aimlessly, in limbo,
deliberately disconnected,
hesitating over every step
as if navigating a grid
without coordinates.

I hover above trivialities,
fret over minor matters,
and obsess about details
in an effort to distract me from
what needs to be addressed.

Procrastination on an
expert level is my answer
to controversy, my go-to mode
when I am unsure
where I stand with you.

© november child
photo credit: Geekly Things via Flickr


Under the billowing canopy
of your self-made throne,
safe from harm you sit,
legs drawn up, toes wiggling,
ash-blonde locks constantly
falling over your eyes,
simmering down after
a day full of excitement.

One sticky hand holds
your toy car in a death grip,
while the other grabs
little slices of pear
I had to cut just so,
chewing happily, unperturbed
by sweet juice running
down your chubby chin.

You’re my personal lodestone,
irreversibly drawing me
into your bubble of happiness.


© november child
photo credit: Wikimedia commons
in response to Mindlovermisery’s Menagerie Wordle # 146 ‘March 13th, 2017’

This is Serious

I try to squeeze eternities
between seconds,
as I watch you get dressed.

I aim at expanding
those intimate moments,
while the dim light sends
shadows dancing across your skin.

Me gustas.


© november child
photo credit: boxography via deviantart


Casually you walked
into my orderly life,
and carved your name
across my memories.

Stubbornly your scent of sage,
cinnamon, and leather
clings to my susceptible senses,
holding my rationality captive.

Clearly, everything about you
is a descent into regression,
and obviously, a path
my treacherous heart craves.


© november child
Photo credit: Original by Joanna Burn via flickr


Your storm is an overly
destructive force, quite unsuitable
for my fragile disposition;
too many pieces of me
already went missing
during that last encounter.

Exposure to your intensity
is best kept at a minimum,
just to hold
my trembling heart at bay.

© november child
photo credit:

Matters Of The Heart

Had to build a new heart again.

The old one, unreliable thing,
got itself broken in the wake of
some tragedy or other.

Seems that this one organ
is a bit of a weak link
in an otherwise reliable,
perfectly sensible organism.

It likes to forget its primary
function, namely to pump blood,
instead favours getting involved
in counterproductive romance.

© november child
photo credit:


What a clever trap
you have laid out for me,
my curiosity piqued
by a trail of compelling baits.

Tiny glimpses of steadiness,
sweet samples of safety,
delicious treats of trustworthiness,
too alluring to resist.

From within my bubble of chaos,
my world of emotional roller coasters
and a history of running away,
I stare at your enticing offers
like a child longing for the cookie jar.

And you watch me
in quiet anticipation.


© november child

photo credit: Dave Shafer via flickr



The two glasses mist up
in the warm summer night,
single drops of water
slowly flow down fragile stems,
leaving wet rings on the table.

Our silence connects us
more strongly than words could,
for a glorious instant
there is no space between us,
nothing that needs to be bridged.

And I send a little prayer
that my mind will link
those two glasses forever
to this moment of
of pure perfection.


© november child

photo credit: Winniepix via flickr


Fight For What?

Fight vb, (when intr. often foll. by for)
to uphold or maintain (a cause, ideal etc.)
by fighting or struggling.

© Collins English Dictionary 21st Century Edition


Fight for you
I would rather not,
this being a concept
that puzzles me.

What would I be fighting for?

A love withdrawn,
to me, is a worthless thing,
a pas de deux robbed of its elegance,
last page turned in an already torn book,
a remnant I refuse to reclaim.

A love gone astray,
to me, is a pitiful thing
the faded, yellowed copy
of what used to be grand,
a replica I refuse to recapture.

I am prepared
to make every effort for love
but fighting is not on my agenda.
I would rather ride
the waves of pain and sorrow
as long as it takes to recover.

I prefer to relinquish
what should be a gift
than live with an ill-gotten trophy.
So never ask me
to fight for a lost love,
I will not consider it worth my time.


© november child



Five more mornings
when the pink tinted glow
of  a far away sunrise
will greet you before
I even go to sleep.

Five more days
of  dim sum and chow fun,
the tastes of which
I am unable
to steal from your plate.

Five more evenings
as you wander
packed foreign sidewalks
on streets whose names
I am incapable to pronounce.

Five more nights
of reaching into empty space
before wings of steel
finally take pity on me
and carry you back across time zones.


©november child
Photo credit: Cory Hatchell via flickr


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