A globe of my own.

I am on the precipice
of reeling in this emotion -
of declaring sovereignty
over it.

It's the middle of a
Sunday afternoon,
shades lazily parted
to watch falling flurries

and here, I stand,
among it all.

Snowflakes brush
my lips, and I greet
them, wishing they
tasted like something,

like anything...

like smoky marshmallows,
reminiscent of summer bonfires
we never had,
and the warmest place by
a hearth you never tended to....

like sugar cookies and gingerbread
in an often neglected oven
due for a thorough cleaning...

like your name never growing
stale, its tone staying sweet,
fresh pine when I open my eyes
and strawberry fields when
they close at the end of the day.

This emotion,
it's the nostalgia of a memory
never fully formed,
the bitterness of a comfort
that I had to demand,
that was never given freely.

No one walks past me.
No one drives by.
They are all inside,
and I fight to keep this
feeling of being alive,
of the bright white
redemption,

before it settles
on the streets -

a hello never wanting
to give a goodbye.