could it be true?
the ides of november kick just as hard as those in march.
you’ve got bruises to prove it.
but instead of purple, they’ve turned rose. and you see the world through their hopeful hue.
the clock may fall back, but the kick moves you forward. you hurl with as much grace as you can muster.
which turns out to be just a thimble full. maybe less.
but you hold tight to this truth: tripping toward the future is still getting there. and the bruises can be beautiful.