Harold in November
You said: your eyes are ever so enticing,

I heard you,
you cannot take it back now,

you cannot rearrange the chain of events
that led me from the parking lot to
the sudden smile alighting across your
face when you see me, or the oval
of your long arms wrapped around me
while I slide on tiptoes to rest my chin
on the droop between your neck and shoulder.

You said: I literally had the best night of my life,

I saw you reach for my hand,
you cannot claim the way you
snaked yourself around me was in
error or in jest now that I've laid
myself out over you, now that
you've folded me up across you,
slung me like a extra limb and
lingered inside the shadows of
my bedroom in the most silent
hours of the night when the rest
of the world was oblivious,

where there is no one left
on this side of November
but us, when we kiss the evening
single handedly, when we've made
love to the idea of us, and you've
crested yourself over me like
an unspoken declaration.

Truth is in the action,
and the reaction, it's the soft
cottony gauze of a family
dinner, it's me bending
over you to kiss you upside
down while your head rests
in my lap, it's the cold first
snowstorms of November.

Its getting started on those kids,
you joked, your fingers angry
inside of me, the dull ache
of you when you slide out of
me,

it's getting started,
finishing, moving on,
and letting go.