Numbed by November.

It's not the bite of the
wind or the regret
in each step closer
to my demise.

It's not the way you
refused to listen,
or how you danced
at the symphony
of my pain.

It's the moonlight
on my back,
full and effervescent,
yet aimless in
its supervision.

It's the way
comfort eludes me,
until my memories
are written into a
gravestone no one
bothers to visit.

November plays
one-noted tragedies
on my rib cage,
and I,
I long for
a place to lay my head,
where dark and light
can contact me
no more.