the scratchy blanket

I woke up early and it was cold.

I remembered my dreams from the night before,

I remembered the two wonderfuls who woke me up at 1am to say goodbye.

I remembered the tears shed, the laughs, the smiles, the stories.

I pulled the scratchy blanket from off of my bed,

and I put it in the cupboard for some other lucky soul, some other lucky year.

My shower was long, my breakfast was small, and my coffee? Instant.

I sit here, wishing for her to come and see me, one last time.

But I believe she’s asleep, and will stay that way for a while.

I believe she’s dreaming, and will stay that way for a while. 

My sparrows, my wolves, are still as the blades of the grass.

My raindrops, my windows, are bruising the trees around me. 

My last hours in France.

Bitter. Sweet. 

Complete. 

The canals and frescoed walls have picked up their skirts and darted away.

Now I must do the same.

It’s time to go home.