I wrote this last year around this time. I hardly ever remember anything I have written, but this little bit stays with me all year around. Indulge me...
October is brash. He walks in full of swag and vigor, fresh from splitting logs. His muscles are barely contained by his white cotton t-shirt. His hair is full and wild and gleams with red and gold. His beard crowns his full toothed smile. He blows in, lifts you up and twirls you around the room. When you bury your face in his neck his smell is honest strength, wood smoke and spice. People stare at him without shame, their mouths agape. He is tall and strong and loud. His laugh booms through every room in the house, an explosion of good will and a teasing hint of mischief. He holds you until your ribs creak. You dance by the light of the harvest moon and in his arms and in that light you are the most beautiful that you will ever be. He is loved, adored, worshiped…and then he is gone.
The heartbreak is crippling.
You will never survive the loss of October.
And then you see him.
November lurks in the shadows. His hair is black and hangs over his eyes. He watches from the back of the bar. When Leonard Cohen comes over the speakers he looks at you, into you. He knows everything about you with that single look. His eyes are dark and filled with clouds. He is lanky and his fingers are long and troubled. He moves quietly, deliberately, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his battered leather jacket. He sips whiskey and keeps a notebook. Nothing but truth and shattered hearts are etched in it. He finally comes over to you, takes your hand and without a word pulls you outside into the dark smoky night. The wind blows dead leaves at your feet and you feel grief and lust and tragedy. The nights will grow longer and colder and you will deny, you will deny with every glance, with every kiss, until the last shriveled oak leaf falls, that November cannot stay.
One day the snow will fall and November will be gone. You will be left alone with December perched awkwardly on the sofa in his reindeer sweater, drinking eggnog. Your aunt set you up. "He's perfect!" she trills. You will try to love December, but he's too predictable. After a few rides in his fancy sleigh you'll be happy to see him gone and you'll bid your time, you'll try to breathe for ten more months until October and November return.