Wind In My Hair

Singapore: 26 degrees C

The door slammed shut.
A blast of wind,
Slapped in the face.

Reach for the window to shut it.
Pause and look.

Wind, swirling and
Tossing random leaves
Hurling passing birds into a tailspin
Downwards.
Sheets of rain relentlessly driven
Obliterate the view,
Buildings fading into oblivion.

Would that the wind could blow
These clouds of uncertainty
Away, to lift
The burden of waiting and wanting
Something, some other, perhaps,
That the rain would wash away
The bitter after-taste.

Face pelted by raindrops.
Reverie broken.

Close the window.
Glance in the mirror.

Hair askew, all cowlicked.
No matter.
HM’ll smile at the sight.
“Chicken,” HM’ll say.

Laugh at the thought.

22 floors in the air
A place called home
With HM.