Painting on my Wall

Perhaps, it really was a little too cold that night,
Or maybe it was all just a weird dream, who knows.
I was walking slowly down the slope, on the sidewalk,
My footfalls barely interrupted by the cobbled pavement.
When suddenly, I spotted snow on the tips of our hills,
Bizarre, how they glowed eerily, even in broad daylight.

Winters are cold, but not bleak, for it never snowed here.
There were always a few trees in bloom, red blossoms.
Yet, that day as I trudged on, glancing over the city walls,
I’m sure I spotted clumps of fluffy white, in the distance.
What made hardly any sense was the shivering cold breeze,
Or the blue fog that divided the city, far beyond, from me.

What was happening, I wondered, shuffling my weight,
I noticed then, how deserted the whole place seemed,
Like on an unannounced holiday, the streets were left empty.
Not a hat in sight, nor any coat disappearing into the crowd.
There was not one person lost, ambling along, within the city walls.
The wide old town looked wholly uninhabited, except for me.

Still shy of a few hours to noon, the sky was as clear as it could be.
Further ahead, tiny red blossoms silhouetted against the vast blue.
The wind shifted around me, like moods, constantly changing,
I took off my olive jacket and let the air play with my hair.
Raising my palms outstretched above, my fingers tingled,
Excitement flowed through my veins, I could feel the rush.

But the exhilaration was fleeting, effervescent emotions.
Once touched, they vaporize quickly, ceasing to exist.
Awakening from a long yearned dream, I was being cast out,
As the boundaries of the magical land, closed in again,
I watched helplessly, shut away from the hills, the wind,
Falling back into my physical trap, the body I was caged in.

Reluctantly, I open my eyes and stare at the white ceiling above,
The white walls, the watercolour hanging on one of them,
My holiday town, those familiar hills and sakura blossoms,
In the distance, the mist giving the scene a magical touch.
I knew now where the snow came from, or why it was cold,
But not harsh, why the wind was cheerful, and not bleak.
Or why deserted it remained on every visit, awaiting my return.

Pond scum

water laps against
empty plastic bags
choking drains
like cotton plugs
keeping out noises
but enchanted still
green scum floats
no breeze
time has stopped
silence reigns
some peace at last

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remember me?

Will you ever miss the warmth of my body,
as it lay curled in between your arms?
Or reach out for the tenderness you knew would be just beside you,
in the middle of the night?
Will you in the morning stare at the untouched propped pillow,
and wonder if I slept well wherever I was?
Will you ever take two cups for coffee, absentmindedly,
and then remember that you needed only one now?
Will you ever return home and feel slightly disappointed
at finding the room vacant, the lights turned off?
In the shower, like usual, will you call out my name to ask for the towel
when you forget to take it inside with you?
During winters, when your hands grow cold and you rub them together,
would you think back to the times we cuddled up for a late night movie?
As time runs out, will you too cease to remember me
like I seem to be forgetting you now?