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november child

the curse of a sentimental heart & a skeptical mind

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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
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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

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

Bliss

Tiny wafts of bliss
drift from my mug.

If I told you that
happiness
smells like
cinnamon and vanilla,
would you believe me?

© november child
photo credit: via eatpurelove.nl

Spicy

Intonation

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

Promises

Promise me, you said,
and I hesitated,
even after
the despondency
in your eyes
lashed out at me.

But I could not say
what you wanted to hear,
and now your dejection,
and my guilt
linger in
my silence.

 

© november child
photo credit: Chris Ford via Flickr

Chasing Meaning

I try to catch meaning again,
a Sisyphean enterprise
as my attention span
is in direct relation to
my ever increasing
level of ennui.

And I do get bored easily
these days.

She says,
Why ever? Do you not see
how much excitement
this world holds?
All the things we can do…

And I so want to
burst her bubble of
naivety with a spell of
disillusionment.
An overreaction, I admit,
but sometimes her
artless views
bring out the worst in me.

Oh, the eagerness of
a young soul.
Been there, done that.
They are all caught up
in the doing
which does not
equate to being.

Do they ever ponder
the necessity for activity
at all?

 

© november child
photo credit: Steve Jurvetson via Flickr

Collecting Tears

What did you do
with her tears?

Did you shrug them off
with the contempt
you reserve for what
you perceive as weakness?

Did they make you
uncomfortable, when
they too clearly pointed to
the issues you are
unwilling to face?

Or did you cherish them,
every tiny drop a trophy
that you collected
as a symbol of the
power you hold over her?

 

© november child
photo credit: hadia lakhras via The Awesome Daily
The article about the Topography of Tears is fascinating!

Map

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

Communication

I have made a mosaic of
our conversations, frantically
inserting colourful shards of
desperation to fill in
the uncomfortable gaps.

I dive headfirst into your silences
which equally repel and attract me,
unable to sit this one out while
suffering from flashbacks to a place
where silence equalled punishment.

I choke on the pleas I will not voice,
raising my shield of nervous smiles,
and taking refuge in jokes, and sarcasm,
anything, really anything,
to cover up my fear, and confusion.

© november child
photo credit: Pat Mitchell
I happened upon this site while searching for a photo. I am not a fan of mosaics but this artist made some powerful, and beautiful works of art.

Magnet

Wishes

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

 

Heatwave

Northern European skin,
too fair and
defenseless,
winces at the touch of
a merciless sun.

Viking genes,
with their embedded
memories of
cold North Sea water
and snow-covered land,
are offended.

 

© november child
photo credit: The Independent

Hesitation

I falter

I waver, and wait

I think, rethink, and overthink

But you,
and your cursed impatience
may not simply run over
my hesitation
like a bulldozer on steroids.

You,
and your bloody self-assurance
may not simply sweep over
my cautiousness
like an out-of-control wildfire.

I do not know
if this comes as a revelation,
but I do make decisions very fast
when pushed too far.

 

© november child
photo credit: Kate Ware via Flickr
Revelation

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