The air was stagnate that day.
No winds swept past to blow the pain away.
No gentle breeze to comfort the harsh news.
Only the feeling you get when the air is to humid,
When you gasp and heave but the air never quite seems to fill up your lungs.
The tears fell down,
Misting July.
The misunderstanding,
Clouding out August.
And than the hate,
Burning up September,
Eating up October,
And leaving November in ashes.
After all that happened you left.
Leaving the rest of the months to rot.
In memory of you.
The ashes of November will never blow away with the wind.

Unconditionally Yours