A stale wind breezes over my face, hungover
And weary from years of rage and aloneness.
Every bit of this body withers, aches many winters.
Every breath, sometimes burnt petrol, sometimes charcoal, ash.
I try to breathe in green memories of my liquid past.
They disappear half way. Sometimes they freeze into a single photograph. No cold mountain breeze to surround our love
No wide paddy fields to run aimlessly towards the horizon that called upon the dusk. No hay over our clothes, no mud, no grass over our shirts.
Even the water now tastes like responsibilities.