A Dear Habit of Living, a haibun by Alex Drogin

We get very sunny winters here in Providence, which you were always noticing. I've begun picking up on it too. But the light is thin, empty. It doesn't weigh on your back like the sun in New York; it dances, it sings, it whips with the wind which we had also always seen. When it grows too weak the night settles in. Dark chills slip past my walls and through my bedsheets and, without fail, I think of you, though only because I have no one else to think of. 

on the nightstand

dust

and a box of tissues

Every night is the same; frost seeps in from the windowpane, moonlight thins on the ceiling. Eventually I fall asleep. Last night I met someone in a cramped kitchen with big eyes and pretty lips. She made me think of you - she left, as did everyone else, as did I. In the morning the sun fell lightly across my room, as it always does, bringing little warmth. I've been thinking of you less. I'm sure you have too.

dusk

my broken radiator

hissing affirmations

Dicots, a haibun by Alex Drogin

The third time we saw each other the road was cut with tire tracks through the snow. We walked along either side of one, making sure to get our shoes a little wet and our feet a little cold. We would warm up at the party and sweat through our sweaters and by the end of the night the tracks had been blanketed over again. We retraced our steps back to your house, shoes wet, feet cold, warming up inside. You stopped at the hood of a car on the way and doused me with powder: I would have frozen, if the blood hadn't rushed to my cheeks. At your front door you brushed the remaining sleet out of my hair. It didn't snow so gently again all winter.

daffodil trumpets

waiting out the silence

of snowmelt