K.S. ANTHONY: New York, November

24 October 2016

New York, November

New York, November –

I have written you love
poems in autumns before,
my lovely darling—
the longed-for hours of the honeycrisp months
are those we know to be best, sweetest still,
for you too wrote of cold coffee-mornings,
my books nestled among your books,
love-note napkins and bundles of letters crowding
the shelves of you and I.
This is the season we know
now, when I no longer walk through street markets
alone
and your wrists, your nose, your hands
are not far from me—
I need not remember,
name the color that is your skin
or find reminders of your face along familiar streets—
nor shall I forget.
Your sweet unrest I shelter as my own
as this November falls into
sweet, returnable death
and my soul folds into you.



I didn't write this. I was written to me by a girl I knew once in a November that has come and gone during a season of letters and long distance and later, pain and loss. 

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