by Anthony Abuan
The fog was against my window,
And the mid-morning had never seemed so beautiful.
The abyss of grey spanned in every direction,
Not even the silken silhouettes of trees could be seen –
Wisps of steam wafted from my coffee.
And before my eyes, they disappeared.
Did I dream of you last night?
Or was it the night before?
The fog was thick enough for me to question
If I truly knew what lay beyond.
Can you still recall the sound of my voice?
The room was cloaked in a still grey light.
A pallor of ruin’s replica.
Did you burn my letters?
The fog lingered into the night,
The lights of Richmond were muffled.
And the moon – sweet darling she is –
Her lights exhaled through the shadows to stretch
Her soft fingers tenderly upon my window,
As though to say: I remain.
When the rain came, it started in slow shallow sheets
At my window. One could even hear the sound of a playground
Swing, swinging and swaying unused.
The flame of a dying lighter holds the room for a moment,
Then darkness resumes.
Anthony Abuan is a native to California and a student of kindness. He has written in many forms, yet he cherishes poetry the most. He studies English with aspirations to teach composition.