Looking through the
misty window at
the dull light
of winter’s day,
and thinking about
the you that was
and still is and
might be again.
Mulling over burnt toast
and runny eggs that grow cold
too fast, but not memories
that remain torrid even
through the sleepy frost
of mornings and the drifting
fog of long night thoughts
and desires far away.
Walking in the crunch of
frosted grass mornings,
the feet move with the heart,
heading towards desire that
is always too far away;
and never able to traverse
the distance not marked in measure
but in termination’s pain.
The leaden window is a lens,
like the history of regret,
and in looking out, the world
seems dull and the greyness
of the light is the shadow fall
of a life half lost in the you
that was behind this window
gazing out at the colours of the day.
7/9/2018