it is when

it is when the air is supposed to change

and instead of cool breezes

and i sit in the sun, too hot.

it is when i wish to be cold

that i wish to be warmed

be someone other than myself

and the lonely sun.

it is when i am not home,

for the first time i am not home,

to see the seasons change or

to feel the holidays advance

on us like soldiers,

window after window,

that i wish for my own -

that i am aching for my own.

it is when i am tired,

when my thoughts

and spirit are sinking

from the weight of independence

and higher impossible seeming dreams,

and a terrible loneliness

when i am tired of on-guard conversations

that i regret.

that i wish you were waiting to greet me.

but, brooklyn is not paris.

brooklyn is not paris.