I walk through the park, not sure
whether it's winter or a memory, cold
that is chapping my cheeks.

The scene blurs, ensconced
in thought and frosted blades of grass
crunched underfoot.

Last Summer, I idled in the cafe
with a cafe au lait,
a sun kissed poet
playing origami with the menu.
Thinking about what it really meant
to be silent,
and the strength of words that bind to verse
metaphors that tumble like a waterfall
and the concept of love.

I wanted to stand on my table
romance aloud about first loves and moments,
lost like a grain of a sand.

And how I feared that if I loved,
a fierce sun would famine my words-

I wince at the memory
of the shadows tracing my steps,
of the single empty cup
savouring the last traces of java.

And the orange August moon
under which I sat, alone.