Image Source: Unsplash- Marina Abrosimova
November tastes of half-light wine,
poured in a cup from the divine.
I lost myself between ghosts,
in this nostalgic month of almosts.
The year exhales a tired grace,
time lingers, unsure of its place.
I raise my glass to what decays,
to all that stayed, and could not stay.
This was written by our contributing writer, Andreea Cristine.
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