August 24, 2024

It was warm, neither as frigid as winter nor as heavy as summer. I walked as conscious as I always am with my nondescript face. But I chance upon a rose I buried in an autumn long before I grounded my spirit. I froze in the minute decimal of my existence, my life in rewind and my mind in waves. For the love of stars, I too worry you were the last of those kind. Perhaps, that rose was my first and last hand to hold in the artic of my desolate dreams. A hand with a warmth that offered the right temperature I craved. But I burned those letters you sent to me. Letters are my romance. I dismantled the string that tied us. I still own few threads. Even if I do not dream nor pine for you, some of my life is stained by you. I wonder if I stained some of yours too. Maybe, I have and perhaps, I have not. But I do not wish to know. This is just a minute interruption. So I thaw in that second, focus my eyes, smile and walk on. Because I do not love you, merely in love with the image I drew of you in my perpetual poet's mind. It was such a lovely warm day.