November Weather

The way that things descend in November enlightens me.

Crisp, golden leaves fall from these Autumn trees,

the ones we've planted uncoincidentally,

and they crumble beneath the platforms of my torn-up shoes.

Rain continues to fall here,

A sort of comfort to my madness

—at least one thing isn’t changing.

The temperature is declining,

body numb and below freezing.

With these seasonal declines follow my emotional withdrawal,

and I am fading from the brightest shade of periwinkle blue

to a much darker depiction,

sapphire,

now black,

lifeless voids enclosing me in such never-ending darkness.

And maybe this just sounds like I'm whining,

but I'm spending my nights writing about hopeless feelings,

waiting for someone to strive after my attention.

And I wait impatiently by my phone,

like I'm deserving of someone's time.

Still,

it never rings,

and I'm falling back into a new routine.

I'm writing again, eluding these thoughts:

I've never felt so alone, and god I love this cold, rainy weather.

And sure,

all of these thoughts are being interrupted by every secondary emotion,

every possible outcome.

But still I wish they were being eliminated,

thoughts of you and the things we planned to but won't do,

thoughts that cloud my instincts and my judgement,

thoughts that make me forget about me,

thoughts that make me ponder happily ever after and if it really exists,

thoughts that make me wonder if I should be chasing fairy tales,

thoughts that make me believe I lost any chance of hope when I said goodbye to you.

The way things descend in November enlightens me,

like our promise to always love each other,

yet our love descended this warm and gloomy November,

and we stepped back in unison.

It's as if you could see the greens of summer leaves fading from my eyes to die with the winter,

meaningless pigments of color.

These November trees, as their leaves descend,

begin to look less and less like the emerald pines

described in storybooks with happy-ever-after tales.

Fairy tale trees,

somehow, they taunt me every day.

I don't want to be jealous of the trees planted firmly in my neighbor's front yard,

more vibrant and joyous than I think I've ever been,

but he captured an everlasting story in their roots.

I watch him tend to them through my bedroom window.

I watch him nurture these plants,

and I wish someone would treat me so delicately,

like I was a flower,

but everyone seems to disregard me consistently,

like I've wilted.

And I keep telling myself that if someone would let me,

I could prove to bloom in the winter weather,

like the never ending trees in storybooks and my neighbor's front yard,

as if it’s up to someone else.

I keep repeating, “I could prove to bloom this descending December.”

I could prove to bloom in the winter weather.

I convince myself someone else caused the wilting.

God damn this November weather,

so thought-provoking.