Eleven

Every time I see you, you just drift into the horizon. You come as unexpectedly as always. Every time, it surprises me how worn and ravaged you have become. You are beautiful in a way that Nastassja Kinski was in my youth. Shy, mysterious and dark. But no one can say you are sexy, where you stand with your wet hair, in your old raincoat under the deciduous tree that has lost its last yellow leaf. The wind tears your coat, and you look cold with furrows and roses on your cheeks. You are different in more southern latitudes, but I always meet you when you are worn, wild, wet and dark.

When I see you coming, my first thought is always to cross the street before we make eye contact. But you capture me every time with your deep, dark and melancholic mood. The time we spend together is always the best.

I have met many who dislike you. Even hate you because you are so cold and dismissive and gives everyone a cold shoulder. Some people get in a bad mood as soon as your name is mentioned. And when we first talk about your name, it also gives associations to something completely different from who you are. Your name carries the hope that you are warm and pleasant like a gentle foehn wind from the Sahara. But you have never been that way to those of us who know your story. You never pretend to be someone else, or that you could change. You offer nothing but darkness, cold melancholy and depression.

Your name means number nine, but now you are number eleven. Number twelve eats into you and makes you half theirs. But you stand your ground against number ten. It will never steal anything from you. Number ten itself gives hope to those who love everyone from number five to eight. Number nine and ten are not to be trusted. They can be warm as a summer breeze or as cold as you. They can give hope of eternal summer but can betray you at any moment.

I love you for what you are. You never promised me anything. Never let me think you were anything but who you were. You are always honest about being cold and dark. No one can expect anything from you. No one expects anything from me either during the time you are here. No one calls and asks if we should do something, go away or meet up when they know I’m with you.

Soon we will be in the most hectic and expectant time of the year. Number twelve is a mixture of cathedral and carousel. Its mission is drowned in garish colours, bad taste, coloured lights and runaway credit cards. Number twelve demands more than anyone can deliver. As soon as number twelve announces its arrival, I miss you, number eleven. Then the memory of you is like a distant dream of a foreign land. A quiet darkened island without noise and flashing lights.

November: you never promised us anything and that makes you my favourite month.