This is November emptying, the sound
of rain driving against the windowpanes, the smile
of an approaching winter blooming. I hate this inability
to forget but my memory
is always mixed in with regret, blending amongst
empty construction sites or hours on the terrace
aching over veins of future.
I’m still startled at how I locate the past
in a sore place in my heart. Damaged
and impassive, it refuses to change.
I don’t know enough reasons to not
care, to not want to fully understand
the reason for being placed on fate’s
crooked arm. I cannot turn away.
So like always we decide to avoid the signs,
ride faster into the distance, sometimes
skidding.

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