november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind




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



I watch as you carefully pick up
the fragile ladybug
that got caught in the curtain.
I can’t help but stare at your hands,
those hands that had me
right from the start
and I am captivated by
their gentle movement.

We count the black spots
there are eight,
our lucky number.

I watch your fingers
as they delicately
follow the outlines
of the tiny wing covers,
and I shiver
when I recall those fingers
composing their song
on my skin.

© november child

photo credit: Guiseppe Lacalandra via flickr



Slight movement of the bushes
like a soft wind blowing.
Big paws parting the grass,
not a sound breaking the silence.
Yellow eyes watching the prey,
nothing escapes her notice.
Muscles twitching
with every elegant move
as she patiently closes in,
her body stretching
for the onslaught,
her strategy already laid out.

Watch her, fear her,
never underestimate her,
the fierce protector of her cubs.
A duty born of love,
she will let nothing hurt them.
Run, pull back fast
to save your pathetic little life,
she is already on to you.
She will destroy anything
considered a threat,
collateral damage
means nothing to her.


© november child

photo credit



When days seem dreary
and pass with lulling slowness,
when we become paralysed
by the constraints of duty
that hold us firmly in place
as if by the jaws of a vice,
we both need a reminder.

A reminder of the promise to
hold hands at all times,
write love notes on napkins,
kiss in elevators,
dance in the parking lot,
count the craters of the moon
and oh, where is my dragon?

As long as together we fall
into new patterns and combinations
of goofiness and laughter
we escape the gloomy slumber
of boredom and habit
which so often proves
to be the slayer of love.

©  november child

photo credt: Bernard Goldback via flickr


I Am Not Her

I am not her

so let me not walk
in the shadows of your  past,
do not force me to enter
the labyrinth of wrong  turns

make me not feed
off an empty plate,
do not let me starve from
your fear of getting close

let me not hear
the whispers of bygone days,
do not chain me
to the post of revived clashes

make me not dig
in the ruins of the departed,
do not force me to brush off
the dusty bones of past deceit

make me not part of
what you left behind,
do not crucify me on
the cross of your flashbacks

count not my mistakes
on old balance sheets,
free me from
lapsed mindsets and regrets

bring only yourself
when you come to me,
bless my innocence
by remembering

I am not her


© november child
photo credit: Carol Mitchell via VisualHunt
in response to: The Sunday Whirl Wordle #263

When Titans Profess Love

You have engraved my name
across the valleys of the moon.
Chipping away with patience
at the untouched bedrock
you were sparing no effort
to craft perfect characters
then trimmed them with
unchanging garlands of dust.

I have printed your name
onto the boiling gases of the sun.
Jeopardising my existence,
yet never cringing
I stubbornly defied the heat.
I lifted, and spun and twisted
those dark hostile filaments
to create my blazing hymn.

As long as those celestial bodies
are moving through space
on their predestined paths,
while the clock is still ticking,
and the creatures of the human stem
are alive and observing the skies,
we will not be lost in the mists of time,
our love unforgotten, almost eternal.

© november child
photo credit: Top Ten Pack
in response to: Brenda Warren’s Wordle 262

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