She is diamond-eyed.
She is acetate.
She dreams of homecomings and spiked fences;
Of justification and untimely oracles.
She notices the seasonal changes in hues,
And wonders if someone too, would notice, that she was canary yellow before.
~
I don't leave at the same time in the mornings anymore.
Without last winter's car-pooling arrangements
I feel like I've lost the final whiffs of punctuality.
I still drive by Toscanos and sneak a peek at the melange of flowers outside.
I also keep an eye out for the moustached man who wears a black suit with reddish-brown shoes,
But we don't meet anymore,
Not by the pole, not as he walks.
~
I'd like to be tuxedo smart and less fluffy.
To banish the right (inferior) options
And not waver
When I reach the brick wall.
~
He always has such sorry eyes when I see him
In the padded parlour, and on the bench in the park.
It's as if the look of sadness follows me,
Like the moon did when I was little.
~