He felt a chill as the air grew cold
The leaves blew gently
He closed his eyes
This November was colder than usual.
He chopped wood and carried the bundle back to the fireplace
The wood crackled as it burned.
He thought back to Novembers long before, and was left, wanting.
A time where the warmth of the fire was felt throughout.
Where his jaded smile was once whole.
Yet only the cold remained. Waiting for Winter, silently and alone.
To the Moon 