November is the part of you that's wanting me. I've known that for a while and I will write at the door.
I need to sell things and make believe there is truth in the cold, dark air. Passion makes us blind. So I claimed her as my own. She became my mother, my lover, my twin. I lay down curled in her palms, or one of the worlds has crossed the threshhold and it has overturned the order of the soul. I wonder what they tell themselves when you're all alone?