It's Tuesday, August fifth,
wind's brushing alleys, streets
where we no longer exist,
where estrangement completes

the picture we once took
together, and commits
suicide just to leave
the outside to the heat.

And as i sit and sip
my coffee, i can hear
departures of the dew
from its beloved leaves,

and back, again, it brings
the so unneeded plea
of my soul's deepest hue-

a reminiscent you
in a still present me.