I walked on a chilly, slow road everyday.
Pace usually shudders to halts.
Why? — Waiting for surprises to hit me,
while expecting nothing but cool,
invisible flames roaring into my body.
Not eroding me. Though that never happens.
Sometimes, the road can be too placid
to accept a man, or a woman,
weeps, or laughs. Like a leopard,
it enthrals me to break off from the tangents
that can stop me.
It used to chase me. Yet he would
not come close; not close to
biting me. His wintriness
bites the air; I cry when the pain
of the frostbite eats into my flesh.
But tears freeze into droplets in mid-air,
supplanting the filigree, on the
ragged piece of cloth he carries along.
But, time passed. He started to turn
warmer, though still enough to bite.
But he is more mild. He is more caring.
Now sees me with no indifference.
Though the dense air does reminisce
the way that he used to stare at me,
he — the dandelion — grows fluffy
around me. Maybe touch is too true.
Maybe too fake.
But this is enough for a friend, like him;
for the friend who saw me. And sees me.