November is the biting cold,
The cracked blue-red of my
Lips pressed together in disbelief.
You say I am faithless, but
The weight of Autumn's corpse
Did not swallow me:
I watched the sunrise alone,
Breathing smoke, loving you, shaking.
I was not myself, perhaps it was the
Cold. I cannot blame the nights,
Cross-legged and coughing, my
Eyeballs blushing red spider lines
For my awkwardness. Yet,
My awareness swings in and out
Like pitch-bend. I stumble
Still and quiet in your bed,
Hand pressed to the heart of you
I mind-clutch your sheets and
Cannot sleep - every second counts.