After

 November is the lover who leaves--

December is the long nights, after.

Trust is the toddler on the tracks--

Experience is hanging from the rafter. 

Hope is a prayer whispered in the dark--

Truth is the unexpected laughter.

Is it wrong of you to wish her gone to Hell?

Maybe when you get there you can ask her.

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I took the opening couplet from a poem I wrote in 2012 and raided for parts. The rest is new.