I feel your hope
in the mid-hours of winter,
see you in its sunset,
Ruwanthi—
then.                   deep sadness.
The kind that clings to bone
like snow on the arms 
of the red maples
Sadness that changed
your taste in music, 
for the rhythms resemble pain
simple ghetto hymns replaced them,
beaten-down blacktop records
and the way you talk 
to your.                          sister.
Formidable, 
the fear of nightfall,
and what others may think—
A sadness that talks 
of being alone
instead
Talks across the table
at strangers,
tongues.                   never tied.
by way of drugs and liquor
A sadness so much so 
you won’t make plans a week in advance,
never mind submit for vacation,
because nothing’s changed?—

Nothing will ever be.      the same.