FLAME

A waft of cold air brings back memories
you can’t quite remember. Without any effort,
they flow through you—
a life left behind. But you proceed
with caution—another waft
has the smell of the sea. They soon scatter
to the floor and when you pick them up,
they aren’t really yours anymore.

The lights sparkle red and gold,
but you and this sleeping city
don’t know each other. But the word “friend”
comes to mind often.

What looks commonplace
from this spot on the hill is actually quite foreign
when I look out the window.
Soon I will find my door
to slip out of early in the morning.

(8 February 2007)