Winter stories

Winter is crawling into my bones
Feasting coldly on my marrow,
Waking the past, the sorrows tucked within…    
My tresses gone, my skin harsher
Than my broken voice now.
The leaves fall in a serene brace of unsounded endings
As the trees frame the olden boulevards in a ghostly manner;
I wake up into weary grey mornings of dead fauvists
Or sometimes facing blue windows fading into the night;
My feet cold, my bed smelling of stale coffee n’ liquor
And your somber absence, an empty space, within and without.
You said you’d love me to my filthiest core;
Well, my scent has vanished in ashes of years-
Years of illicit fucking, crying and drunk wanderings
At neon-lit wastelands of crammed up third world cities
And decaying bridges between lucid dreams and needs for a fix.
And heaps of those years had left me
With something borrowed but fused in me;
I have lost all my abstract limbs, but the everlasting murkiness;
A shadow clinging on my back; a shadow of a strange past-
A past of twisted sorrows which I hid in my bones.
Would you still give me the warmth that you promised?
The warmth that you bear in the palms of your hands
And the cracks of your lips turned bitter
By the dead yellow cigarette butts;
The warmth born of cold, in your pausing breath,
A cold my insides have long been diseased by…
The voiceless mouth of a void in time
Kisses the memories mislaid in the dark of my hair;
I see you now on a distant ship suspended near the northern sky,
While life seeps away slowly, facilely
From the corners of my quieter eyes.