Window.

 

Standing at my window
where the past tenant took drags
of warm smoke, 
breathing into the wind.

Winter air pushing around me
cold phone in my hand;
I look North,
where you might be.

It’s not so dark
it never is
but I don’t see you

A bell rings
and for a brief moment I wonder
if it came from inside
or out.

Twenty-two.

Ouroboros.