November is cursed,  
I sense a chill in the air.
The past floods like whispers,  
leaving me in despair. 

Each day drags on,  
and the nights feel the same.
The world feels so heavy,  
As if time has lost its grace. 

You were my compass,  
my laughter, my light.
Now shadows grow longer,  
and I can’t hold you tight. 

I see the smiles,  
the joy, and the cheer,
but all their colours  
just remind me you’re not here. 

I manage the day of your death,
and then your day of birth, no less.
How ironic it is
To celebrate you twice in death.

The clock ticks softly,  
but it can’t chase the gloom,  
as memories wrap around me,  
like a bittersweet tomb. 

I wander through moments,  
where joy used to dwell,  
but November keeps whispering,  
“Life’s not what it sells.” 

Yet, in this cursed month,  
I’ll find ways to cope,  
hold tight to the love,  
and cling to the hope. 

For though you’ve departed,  
your spirit stays near,  
and I’ll carry you with me,  
through each falling tear. 

Mariam Shittu