To the last boy
I liked at 16 :

November with you was a mix
of teenage grunge and winter pastel.

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Novembers were supposed to be sad and bleak and gloomy, dressed in black, holding a cup of depressed espresso, November was supposed to cry winters. Tears that would dry the life off the leaves and the trees would hush in fear and stand in position, retaliating from breathing, they would look like mannequins moulded from earth.

Quite in contrast with the flashy shades of December, mingling with the drowsy drunks of the fading greys, November was supposed to be a wailing teenager with books crippled with angst.

It was so, until you. Giggles and smiles and the burning red of Christmas had crept onto my cheeks, staining my eyes with the promise of hope, I had worn my heart on sleeves pairing it with the reddest of my scarves, I had been dancing to the flimsy light of the ageing sun and the merry December.

Going round in circles, pushing past the blacks and browns and greys, I had felt the blues of gloom shrink from the burning red of passion, had I known what it would mean I'd have stayed in the nights longer, farther from the primitive gaze of the morning, away from the old and all knowing ageing sun, the one who'd been a spectator of as many waltzes as we couldn't manage.

Had I known that I'd like you, I'd have resided in the first half of November, unjust to the gratifying heat of everything that I could remember, I'd have kept my heart in the wraps of my palest sweaters.