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