water on stone

nights in the city in winter
are like long sad kisses

from the ghost of a person
who’s been dead a long time

and I don’t know if it’s just my humours
imbalanced as they’ve always been

but lamplight reflected
in puddles on concrete

as cold winds howl by are enough
to make me think that if I died

in that instant it’d be with gods
lined up to receive my spirit

once when I worked in a call centre
I told the girl next to me

that I was struck in the early mornings
by calm blue shades across the fields

and though she didn’t roll her eyes
she might as well have

there’s just no sense
in painful sensitivity

I’d like to look at puddles and think
that they’re just water on stone