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Remember, remember, the fifth of November. Leaving home by the faint light of the rising sun. Its streaks bathing the canopies with hazy gold, as your feet forged their own path. Clambering down the slope of soil, a long bed of rock awaits. Into the very womb of nature, you walked the forested trails.

Remember, remember, the fifth of November. You fancied seeing him for the first time. Curious as a cat on how he’d talk or react if you ever say poetry or love. โ€œHe wonโ€™t arrive,โ€ you surmised. Indeed, he was nowhere to be found. And so you remember this day as a matrimony of both happy and sad.


Borrowing this phrase from the English folk verse, The Fifth of November. This one’s for the soul who let me watch V for Vendetta and introduced me to Guy Fawkes. The very same one who didn’t show up a year ago on this day. ๐Ÿ˜‚๐Ÿ˜Š