Being Single In Wintertime
Being Lonely During The 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:
