Lost November

I am lost November,
with the breath of winter
at the hairline of its neck.

I am the blood orange that
sours a little too soon.

A thirty day intuition
to a season of good will.

A blip on the side of
the road that melts easily
out of sight, out of mind.

An unremembered instance
on a torn index page
of a forgotten, spineless book.

I am lost November.
Remember me the instance
when you feel unremembered too.