I hope this note never finds its way

Back to the person it concerned

For I care not for your whereabouts

Nor understand what’s in your mind

But sometimes when I’m on a hill

The wind stirs up a breeze just right

I hear the rumbling of the engines

The blaring of sirens in your head

Resonating within that metal bird

My skull pressed against the window

Prodding the frail limen of sleep

You keep returning in my dreams

Me standing alone in the downpour

Clinging onto a torn bag of clothes

I’ve outgrown since I’ve borne

The burden of having known you