alone

the wind blew

into bones.

 

it was winter.

the beds were cold.

and sometimes

the thoughts fell into

others. each strangling.

living in a past

gone. but sill felt.

still here.

in this moment.

where the beds were

as silent

as the nights.

where the nights were

as cold

as the beds.

and sometimes the bullets

fired.

 

close enough

to feel close enough.

close enough to

chase faces

into vices

that felt a whole

lot like warmth.

and no one cared.

 

© Hudson Biko