I think November is my favorite color

November is the touch of an old friend 

And the whispers that smell of hot cocoa breath in pillow forts.

She brings comfort and memories

Of ancient days 

Where the air smells of crisp newspapers 

And empty spaces in museums.

My tote bag that hangs on the knob of my door

Has a 3 x 3 pattern of washed out hearts

It smells of street pretzels and good memories 

Though, I’d rather forget most of them. 

The trees that line the courtyard so perfectly

Reek of cigarette smoke 

And whatever the smell of humidity is described as.

But they also have an ambrosial smell

Of warm rain and flowering tobacco.

They look so lovely

The colors that define radiance 

And I bet they taste of caramel apples and cranberry sauce.

November, my favorite color, hangs off of me 

Like a sundress in August 

Rusty orange skirts and brown platforms and red overcoats. 

Most people prefer October

The encore of summer and the true beginnings of new people

And new places and new senses

But November, my favorite color, simply has a tighter hold of me 

Than any of the other 11 colors. 

Each of them are idyllic in their own way

But November is just 

Almost lyrical. 

A melody I know all too well

A rhythm I can sway to comfortably.