8 December: Opening Windows

sketch house trees and birds in flight

Opening Windows

The world is broken and glued,
he says with a bone-grinding calm.

We two are like cheques,
nobody expects us to be balanced.

He’s making a sandwich,
bologna, or something that looks like it,
and he asks if I want one.

Thank you, no. I answer.

And he recalls when he’d
pop around the corner
for a smoke, exhaling white curses
into the frosty air.

I used to write
I love you notes on dried leaves,
and slipped them into your socks, I say.

He slices another piece of bread,
and I open the windows,
to let the laughter inside.

Some windows are always bright.
Others are always silent and dark.

A bird flew straight through
that open window once.
One bird doesn’t make a flock,
but it sure felt like it.

I stir milk into my tea,
not realising this conversation
would be the highlight of the day.


Image: digital art created using Midjourney (beta v4b) ©Misky 2022 Shared with #amwriting on Twitter

6 responses to “8 December: Opening Windows”

  1. What a wonderful poem! So full of unexpecteds and beauty and weird observations and the wonderful oddity of companionship.

    Like

    1. And I love him to bits. ❤️

      Liked by 2 people

  2. That last stanza. Not the best of days, eh?

    Like

    1. It was quite okay. 😂

      Liked by 1 person

  3. Very enlightening conversation though!

    Liked by 1 person

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