November 8th.

"I can’t help but still think of you whenever the month of November comes around—it has you written all over it, it smells like you, tastes like you, brings back all the urges I’ve ever had to be with you in the only way you allowed me to be with you (but nothing satisfied me more than that) and somehow it just eases you back into my skin. You always had a way of finding your way there, and I always had a place waiting for you, every time.

But I hate that because in a way, it’s like you’ve won. And all you had to do was open the door, step right in, and slip your way (in &) out just before sunrise and in the simplest way you could while leaving me with a heart of complications.

And even though I always knew we would never be much, I guess the hope was/is and maybe will always sort of still be there, as long as the attraction is, as long as the thread still feels connected.. or as long as my heart finally decides it’s time to let go.

In the meantime, who knows when that will be. All I know is that our former morning meetings of coffee and tea to our secret nights of trysts and drunken debauchery is something I still keep with me whenever I think of you in memory and will mostly always come back to haunt me whenever the wind starts to get chilly, and the leaves start to change colors. Because since you, November has never been the same."