This is not the beginning, it's somewhere
in-between. It isn't black or white, but grey.
I hear the creaking tree branches,
the gruelling wind rips off the remaining leaves
like an esurient scrooge weeds out
the tenants whose rent is due.
The leaves lie homeless, scattered
across the street.
Winter is ruthless.
And so am I —
your voice is muffled under the blanket
I brought from the supermarket, where
I bumped into you again after years.
Somewhere I find it uneasy to accept my fault.
I know she's waiting for you to come back,
but you've lost your way and found me.
In the meanwhile, I tug at the blanket,
dragging it off you, revealing
your guilt-stricken face.
This is not the beginning, it's somewhere
in-between; the end isn't any near either. However,
I'm sure it will always be grey.
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