even over the stink of the gutter
choked with freshly fallen rain,
I can smell his cologne.

It's infuriating.

the torn and ragged tennis ball
lying hapless in the street
only serves to remind me
of his selfish kleptomania.

It's sickening.

even in another world,
as far from home as one could dream,
I can't escape my memories.

It's depressing.

I cannot progress past this point,
no matter how I try.
I am left to wallow in the mud
and abstractly wonder "why?"

TMK 30.7.2007