you asked me if I hate you, one midday where the rain pours down on my garden, my porch our only shelter.  

        I said no

sometimes, though, you hurt me; they may as well be the same thing.  


perhaps one day, 

when ashes have been meshed with dust and time causes all to decay, 

the billow of the wind brings me not broken remenants, 

but the crisp smell of burnt coffee.

I’ll smile as I recognise that smell as you