Being Single In Wintertime

Today he will walked the street

Remembering, how it used to be

Drinking, pomegranate lemon juice

Or eating the edible seeds called the arils.

The gully winds taste like rotten sugar cane. What a downer!

As it burp the sour acid into the dampened air. He will see my mother

sitting on the old paint bucket , washing her window curtains

He will notice that the finest things in life, isn’t free

The tropic, a season so uncreditable, where the images of greenery

Seem healthier. Than some of the indigenous people

The Wi-Fi box, near the window he will depend on it for love

Before He laid his head on the blue and gray fluffy pillows

I haven’t touch his silvery hair since summer

There are traces of him there: the spotted patch of paint on the floor,

The unfinished patio and a gallon of juice in the icebox

The middle room he once stayed in would always stay hot

But here I am shivering in the morning winds,

While, pulling my black hooded close to my face,

He walks up the steps to a little comfort

I walk the cold streets in 37 degrees weather

He is there; I am here living our separate lives: