The sky a shade of sautéed sand,
oozing November chill. I
I thought you were a lie.
I wish I weren’t right, for this season
does not rain stars.
Light slips, skids, rosy across
cheeks grown old.
Cold, like a solitary kiss, on my tongue.
I bundle up fire-place warmth,
mid-night songs in nameless flakes of snow.
Sometimes it perplexes me – these