How perfectly your empty trees reflect my barren soul. I will be grey. I will be bones. I will be just like you.
When morningtime comes, and the sun rises, cold... I will be there. Beneath the twisted branches and frozen mud,
my hand outstretched as if you could almost reach me.
My November, you are more real then love. Your bone-black fingers know me -and the empty space between my
.lungs-where once there was a heart.
But it's been cold for a while now and i've forgotten what it's like to be twisted in your sheets.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.