That November Poem by A Waltz For Zizi

He woke up alone
in a jungle of thoughts
facing the window, as he
did not want to face the door.
He could not forget.
Her heart was his
and someone else's,
but who had the bigger half
he couldn't tell out of her eyes
as she had no remorse
in closing the door.
But he was a good boy.
He always imagined
deeper meanings
to this type of situations.
For so many years
after his mother's death
his father kept company
to her grave, like a ghost
and the image of him
with his rough exterior
like the bark of a tree
and his arms, branches
he would dangle on
as a little child of
three or four years old,
and his fingers
running against her name
like it was her lips,
stayed with him in his
older years, and regarded it
as something kind, that all lovers
should be like.
Thinking about his father
always cleared his mind.
Again he thought of her
against the blue background
of his small room, turning away
like she was a kite
with a broken string.
He didn't want to insult her
or be insulted by her pity
so that morning, he took
all he had and left.