It's nights like these when
the wind blows through me
that I feel bare and lonely.

This cold, this boorish cold
that undoes my clothes and
steals the warmth they conceal,
it makes me miss home. It makes
me homesick, mom-sick, it makes
me want someone to wrap me in
a throw and hug me "it's okay."

This cold, it makes me
want to shrink into my shell
like a snail
picked up by something scary.
It lights up a compass inside
that pulls me somewhere—
somewhere that's not here
in this wind that leeches off
me and unveils me.

This wind, these foreign nights,
these branches that sway to woo
me, to lure me, they make a boy
out of a man. They make me look
around with wide eyes to find a face
that might comfort me. They make
me think of steaming plates full
of love before they go silent,
because love evaporates away
with the water; cold food fills
bellies but never hearts. This
wind makes me wish I had
a hand to hold on to.

It's nights like these when
the cold seeps through me
that I feel bare and lonely.



© Walyullah