Blue Midwinter’s Breeze on Houses, Not Homes

By Evette Davis

I couldn’t leave because your voice felt like my old home,
The home on the block with the walls that caved.
The ’06 basement flood, a following kitchen fire.

We long since left the old house,                                                                                                                 I forgot it, but when I met you
you uprooted everything I never wanted.
Picked a strand of memory that suffocated my throat in blue.

I never told you about my old home,
Mottled walls, martyr dreams.
Though you remind me a lot of it,
You remind me that
Blue wasn’t the color for me.

I remember a midwinter’s breeze
that grabbed at my spine
back when winter played with the marbury bush.

It nipped at me like your blue hands did,                                                                                            and I promise
you broke me down just like that old house,
with its hypothermic hands, hearts, tears and all.

When I left, Infected walls collapsed like a hurricane                                                                         and they bled seasons of blue,                                                                                                                       a deep blue,                                                                                                                                                       of winter. 

A spilled inkwell lies on a table, and all I see is blue.
All you see is blue.
All there is is blue.  

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