i.
The muddy moon hangs low
in my window pane,
rusty red on the edges
like my love for you,
strong but tired,
strong and tired.

ii.
November nostalgia
settles like a crescent wound
between my sternum
and a floating rib,
the cavity cold
and quiet, chilled by
childhood whispers that float
through the wind at nightfall.

iii.
I stain my nails red –
a colour that
both taints and paints her.
Thursday night wraps me
in prussian blue velvet,
and I drift off to visions
where wisdom is not
weariness in new garbs.