The clock is striking thirteen

November is here.

All that has ever meant to me is this:

Scruffy men and Thanksgiving feast

I don't count the things I'm grateful for or complain about the weather.
No.
I count the number of times I am planning to eat my weight in yams and complain about my lack of skills in talking to attractive men who are willing to grow hair on their perfect faces.  I count how many friends I have and complain that I can't get past 0 in that number. I count the hours I'm in school.  but I don't complain...

I count how many times you kiss me in my head.

I count how many times I think about you.

I count how many times you talk about the girl you love.

and I complain.
and complain.
and complain.

I count my steps from l to 100 and 100 to 1 million.

I complain that you've come back into my life.

 Do you count all the times you lied to me? Do you complain that you don't see me anymore?  Do you count the times you told me I had pretty eyes?  Do you complain that I said I love a boy that isn't you?  Do you count how many minutes it takes to get from my house to yours?  Do you complain that it's a lot?  No.
You count the things you're grateful for and you complain about the weather.

I count
I complain

you came back.

November is here.

and all that has ever meant to me is this:

You.