Scenes From A Terrace

Winds hit.

 Sat upon the terrace,

chilly as only mornings can be,

as late as the day could take.

 The heat from the coals,

a glow from distant shores.

 This uneven terrace:

seven seats, two sitters

 A single quilt.

 Rising,

         the

  mist

       from

an adventurer with ice

between her tongue and lip.

 Took it out and threw 

it into the dim heat

 still very red

 peering from beneath,

yearning with envy,

of the single figure before it. 

 It witnessed,

between the potted plants

and remains of a celebration…

Chips.

      Dips.

   Plates.

Stained. Oily. 

The scent of burnt and browning confections; ambient marshmallows 

that always look too ashen 

or too charred to appetise. 

 Neither could we swallow the laughter 

that followed, nor did we remember

to reminisce.

 Much like homeless houses, silence

was either kept aside or foregrounded.

Similarly impenetrable and pregnant

with New Loving and New Worrying.

Much like it is with homeless houses, 

who can tell the difference? Not me. 

 A pack of 

cigarettes; half-empty, 

half-forgot. 

That treacherous night, 

another bad habit was lit.