monksta

february speak,
i'm sitting on this edge of a porch,
looking at the grass,
with smoke rising, rising up
from my cigarette and the houses
warming hands, with mittens

those streets look dead
chalk outline imprints
and her heart beats away muggers
on side streets somewhere.

another year,
tea bags waiting in the pantry
for a cup to fill their lives up
and another empty journal
lacking the ink to give it emotion.

this porch, and those steps,
i remember too well from days gone by
and cigarettes, smoking them
just to pass the time
when you were away.

that bus with its advertisements
stumbles on by, and i remember you
walking up those steps, and disappearing
into the fog, the night,
even the streetlights couldn't
hold your face long enough.

february speak,
the shortest breath of air
i've ever known.