strangers in the house

maybe it's geography
or the bridges that mark
your topography
that separate

rather than doing
what they're meant
and named for
bridg-ing

maybe it was that
one saturday morning
where he wept,
yearning for my return
while you wept
yearning for me to leave
leave from the
deepest corners in your soul
that I had come to inhabit

and leave I did
as someone fond of
a sea-side apartment
is suddenly made aware
(notarized et al)
that this is their last month
as tenants
of the breeze coming in
from the west

and torridity
replaces the smiles
and blue wagon drives
and the cool blue
of tropical monsoons
parching my heart
leaving it yearning
for those eyes
which I no longer see

which I may never see
even as I cry
cry for freedom
cry freedom