You made me the iconographer
Of your dreams
Tagging my hallways with your
You pooled my shallow waters,
Mapping scavenger hunts
To trick me into looking for you,
Only to leave me
Capsized in the black tar
Of your expectations.
The morning air is laced with coriander.
Thick white fog creeps up my bare arms,
The wet cold licks make me shiver
Despite the spring heat.
Crows whine on the rooftops,
Shedding black feathers as they scavenge
There is a sense of expectation in the air,
As if the fog has veiled something,
A truth that is waiting to show itself
As soon as the remains of winter lift.