November Dies

    So November dies. There’s nothing more to be done. My mind is dull as a spoon. Fear threatens, hushed. Seductively looms, like a stranger who wants to be my lover.

    My eyes stare at nothing. Maybe if I ask questions. Was it the whisky which made me feel as if I were underwater. If I was wrought less stupid and shy by her reductive gaze would she want me. If no one had died today would I feel more grounded. If I go could I ever come back.

    Yet I have answers. I do not want every thing. I want to be steady and somber as a pillar. I want no more rustling hysteria flowers. I want him to hold me. I take it for granted. That embrace I am given by him. They do not correspond with my questions. Yet they are answers.

    I want to be home with my mother and father. There my edges disappear. Here anxiety leers, clawing at my feet, and it’s cold. November dies and I wonder why it is so vindictive. I wonder what it is making me pay for. What is it that I have done.

    It is as if it beckons to me with a decaying finger and whispers with its last breath its sickness into my ear. It is as if it lies bleeding on the floor and summons its final strength to pull the trigger of its gun. I fall limp.

    I realize I need him now, which is vaguely surprising and fair to no one. I realize I need him now, could do without but would not choose to, could do without but not as well. And if my circumstances seem infelicitous; perfection never did enter the equation.