Something Cold Falls

In these endless days,
I think of the small yellow room
off the kitchen
where we had our coffee every morning.

I remember sitting with you
looking out the window
over the cobbled streets
of our old city,
now blasted and forsaken.

And something cold falls
through my heart.

I write to you every day
on scraps of paper
folded and refolded
worn and gray at the edges
but each time
I pass a mailbox
I remember that you are no place
that I can send it to.

And something cold falls
through my heart.

When I dream of the worst,
that they have you,
Of what they do,
I wake up
and hold my hands against my cheeks
as you did.

You are alive,
I tell myself,

And I am fleeing.

My old striped suitcase
of orange and green
that fell on your head
on the train ride
through the mountains
so many years ago
drags behind me
leaving bruises on my ankles.

Where I am is nowhere.
I am only where I am from.
And where I am from
is no longer there.

The changing sky
follows me
as I travel,
the gray clouds
chase me across the distances.

Tonight I write to you
in the margins of
a magazine
someone left
in the train station.
Near the words I cannot read,
I write:

Dear lover,
I am safe here
in a small room
with bare walls
and sheets that smell of bleach.

Someday, dear one,

I stop here and
look out the cold window…

We will walk back
along the night streets
where we parted
past the secrets
of the rustling palms
back to the small yellow room
and the coffee
will be thick
and bright.

– Copyright Kay Winter

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