To sweet creature

A Boy At The Window

There in his lonely bedside chair

When December Morning was soothed

By the song of cold breeze outside

Memories waved him through the window

Flashbacks, with such intensity of cut

He refused to welcome, but

They had determined to be guests

Little coffee left , less the warmness

He wished,

He could pour his feelings

Well stir and drink them up.

There he heard them all.

From unmatched gloves to pinecones scent

Narrating the story of past presence

Clouded up the room

With smokes of empty breaths

There he was holding

The weight of those heavy words

Gripping, failing, unclenching

Three words

Slipping from his fingers and

Hazy scripts

Beautifully adorned the foggy panes.

Vague enough to be unstained

But stained enough to feel the pain.