i can't flip the page. refuse to contemplate the idea of leaving november. as if standing still at the creation of your life meant something might be different. that i wouldn't ever have to contemplate going to a home where you no longer exist as anything more than a memory in stories we'll tell one another over steaming cups of coffee. or that slowly like months passing far too quickly i'll add other names and dates to yours. that mine could be there any time. haunting my reckless attempts at sleep, these days, like the nameless faces of starving babies in africa and all the women who were raped, murdered, or tortured in any country on any continent in any city from the time i woke up in the morning until then whose stories will never be told and who won't ever feel like their lives ever made a difference. how to move forward in time.