Your Breath Arrives Like Snow—

Your breath arrives like snow—

freezing the garden

outside my room.

The room becomes a slow, breathing cave:

no noise,

no hunger,

only the weight of longing,

sharing its dying cup with me tonight.

I sat with nights,

waiting for my eyes to find you,

waiting for the rose

to show its teeth.

But now I lock my doors—

a parrot pacing inside its cage.

On a summer evening,

when daylight still held the shadow of night,

I saw you in a black dress,

drinking coffee—

and something in me bloomed

without permission.

Now, in this winter night,

I see you again—

in a red dress,

sitting on the verandah,

looking at nothing.

Your presence smells like old rain.

My heartbeat slows like a candle—

deciding whether to glow

or go out.

The world outside collapses

into a simple truth:

I am lonely

in a different language.

Your breath drifts away,

never thinking of me.

Outside my room,

the snow begins to melt—

warmed

by the quiet ache

I keep burning

for you.