November is a wetty month
dropping it’s soul on the
last pages of my diary.
Tears corroding the page,
shrinking the size of my heart,
and changing its shape into
a small mailbox
functional only on weekdays
with no space for chocolates or ribbons
but for greetings from afar
then be empty for one-year eternity.
November is a wetty month.
It soon will end
All dried out
the rains, the tears
not sure which one is worse.
©kanikachugh