The nights were grey then.
Grey.
The color of your eyes.
Grey eyes, that pierced through my heart.
Heart.
My heart.
A red, raw heart.
These days, the nights are red.
Red and raw.
Strangely, they all
From a Hemmingway quote
To rail tracks by the Ganges.
From snapshots in sepia
To black horses running wild.
They all
Remind me
Of you.
You.
Burnt memories of you.
But does it matter.
Does it matter,
That it rains no more on December nights.
That Ray Charles has become silent.
That my words have failed me,
Over
And over again.
Failed me,
Since you let go of my hand
At the crossroads of this very busy street.
These days, the nights are red.
Red and Raw.
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