february. minor conversations

during minor conversations with the evening
it's damp vapours permeate skin.

this is where i live.

by morning a marching band
play their drums and whistles
through the window held tight
with poems.

and im in love with the light.
it's the same old story.

deciding what's next and what's to come
of almost ghosts and wishbones
that dwell near the sound
of my feet moving across the ground.

the circles i draw there.

and the itch between my fingers.
fingers wish sometimes
they were feathers.

i miss the birds.

nostalgic for their songs
and the places they lead me.
towards everywhere that is home.