November, that time of the year

November, that time of the year.When soft curls of mist dim the pale yellow streetlights
on my walk back home,
On my walk back home from the library,
after I have laboured and languished over submissions
due in two weeks,

November, that time of the year,
when hunger calls every few hours,
and hot samosas answer it.
When cold hands find solace
in warm jumpers.

November, that time of the year,
when lovers can cuddle in one
large soft blanket of feathers
and whispers and tea in their breath.

November, that time of the year,
when the sun still shines and
kisses cheeks and knees and
the tips of noses.
Dew on green leaves,
Laughter and warmth,
love and longing.
For December.

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