Last Winter,
the coldest place to be
was perched upon that balcony,
testing the frigid air.
You could find me overlooking there.
Watching my breath linger, then fade,
the figures of people walking away.
Expanding with strides unbroken,
their anachronistic spots of motion.
Fervent still-lives swapping each second,
flashing, their haystack destinies beckon.
Each step they continue, each foot they shrink,
"tiny infinities" I like to think.
Again, my old listless demon calls,
and the day's porcelain sky begins its fall.
A thin coat, a chimeric chair,
you could find me overlooking there.
With hands loafing, catching snow,
I'm pretending I'm not below.
Oct 27, 2020
Oct 27, 2020 at 2:37 PM UTC