Burnt toast and
a spot of blood.

Father dresses for work
and leaves with a wave,
his gabardine suit
the exact same shade
as the storm cloud blooming
on the back of his left hand.

After breakfast, mother pins
his undershirts to the wash line,
clothespins clenched
between broken teeth.

From my upstairs window,
I watch his shirts stiffening
in the flinty December air,
a chorus of white flags,
obsequious and clean.

Mother recovers in the laundry room,
where the floor is dusted with feeble
grains of spilled detergent.

I spend the afternoon
preparing for the sound
of tires crunching on gravel,
for the sweep of headlights
across the lawn.

There are plans
and maneuvers
to arrange.

Counterattacks.

Even now, the snow
on the side of the road

has turned to the color
of my childhood.

We are tied in this together
harder, closer and tighter
I had this kind of bad fever
that I can see this last forever.

We are so compatible
like long lost friends
you are my decible
in the tightest wavelengths.

We are close to each other
like long lost siblings
you are my unending river
in one of the world's greatest findings.

We are so wide awake
like a record put on shuffle sings
you are my deadly snake
in the need of poisonous stings.

We are almost inseparable
like a fit thunder and storm
you are those birds that dabble
in the strike at sea out of norm.

We are hardly intangible
like hydrogen oxide in the air
you are the only trouble
in the search for lone hydrogen in pair.

We are so great in tandem
like Leonard Cohen's words of rhythm
you are the heart of my poem
in the greatest invention since algorithm.

You are surely the best ever
as,
I have lost count of my own blinks
you assured me that everything will be better
as,
I will never know what the future bring.

I fail,
like everyone else
before me or after me,
I can't hold the fort,
I can't ride the wave,
I can't bite the cliff,
but I should be proud
that I have never been
in the contention
to be excluded
from being chosen
by the mother,
from being taken away
by the father.

It will never be
the question of how far
we made it,
but it will always be
the question of how
we will deliver it.

Be careful
  
         for what once makes you feel complete then leaves you feeling empty,
        
              for what burns like branding iron then cools down to be the coldest thing,
            
                   for what once was special then turns out ordinary,

                         for the soft breeze which becomes into a hurricane

                                  and for life which suddenly brings you to death.

This is just
a waiting game
that needs nothing else
besides perseverance
and persistence
to make sense
of everything
that will succeed
in disappearing
completely,
on one fine day.