November you are my favorite color. You are always the late folk that is unremembered. Cold but gentle. Some people don’t get your purpose. Because you are not for everyone.   You are the judge of fall. You are the look of hunger in a man with heat, is enough to lift an old woman from her knees. As a piece of confusion, he’s been looking for. He was declining to die, but now he’s coming back for more. The speculation of an old man when gets you apart, you can’t see what is coming, but there is a tree standing all stick and bones. You are a blind joke, which purpose is not to make you laugh. You are the saddest of the year. Of wailing winds, and naked woods with foggy air. You are the confusing echoes of people screaming and birds crying for homes. You are a closed window with fire in eyes. You are a weak heart of which injury was made back in spring when everything is born, and it blows in the summer, fulfilling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the coolness thunderstorms come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight when you need it most, it stops. What an old soul you are, barely can move but never wants to die.

This November there seems to be nothing to say.

Time they said… Time will heal all wounds but they lied.

 So, you go on, with your broken parts, trying to find someone to fix them. No one can fix, or heal, or bandage you.

– What about me?

-Is this the part where you start tearing off strips of your shirt to bind my wounds? If you wanted me to rip my clothes off, you should have just asked. I know you can kiss my wounds with your soft lips that can numb them. But the numbness is not forever. Because to heal, you have to get to the root of the wound and kiss al the way up. The only thing that could heal that deep scar is me by taking you there.

– Do you think you are strong enough?

– Stronger than you. I know by looking into your eyes. I can see frustration, nervousness in your red veins; you can’t hide your sad part. You are transparent. Whenever you feel you can be happy, sad, joking, high. But for me, I am always a happy smile with sadness in the eyes. The good part is, nobody looks there to see.

–  Why are you always happy?

– I am not. I am just stronger. My soul is a hidden piano that plays at night by a blind little girl. My soul is crying while I sleep. He is mourning in quietness so nobody can see, hear or feel. Crying without words, in peace. Slow, as a late rain in the middle of the summer. He is letting go all my pretended smiles, all my thoughtfulness, all my issues, everything that my body is trying to deceive. Down to the river, while everyone falls asleep.

He is doing gently because he doesn’t want to wake me up. He does not know that tears sometimes leave marks on my face. This loneliness of my soul crying at night is like a balm for the wounds in my soul.