Co-Managing Mosaic Editor
It was the first day of November when I first saw your face. When we first brushed shoulders at the crosswalk in front of my place. The first marked the first, plain and true. So I guess I should have realized sooner that the last day of November would mark the last time I saw you. November is 30 days out of the year’s 365. One month out of 12. Yet not one fraction of those fractions was dedicated to farewells. Everything happens too soon. Life lets nothing last forever. But our love has one eternal witness: Its face, that November moon. Raindrops fall on puddles, ripples form in November skies. To the boy whose eyes housed a forest, why’d you have to go and die? The best 30 days of my life were the 30 cold days I spent with you. Oh, if only the month wasn’t one month long. November’s never felt so blue.