I loved a man with summer eyes. Him I loved, he be not here. I loved him well, I loved him true. I loved him all I could.
I loved a man with summer eyes. He could see right through. Saw me through, loved me too. But now my lover dies.
For I’m a maid with winter eyes, my summer love is nought but lies.
My lover dies, my ice eyes cry. For summer’s only now a sigh. My lover sweet, with summer eyes. He be the one I go to greet.
I loved a man, it’s true, I did. I loved him well, as best I could. The best I had was not enough. He’d dead and died, the best I tried.
For I’m a maid with winter eyes. And winter’s why the summer dies.
Tobi didn’t know how long it had been since he’d shaved. Two days? Three?
He rubbed a hand across his stubbled jaw in thoughtful contemplation, staring straight ahead without really seeing.
Maybe he should buy a razor.
He didn’t have one at the apartment, nor did he have other normal things, like a bed frame, a kitchen sink, or a couch.
He had cushions and bean bags in place of the last, a mattress thrown on the floor with a collection of ragged old blankets set atop it, to suffice for the first, and for the middle, he used the shower in the bathroom. It got interesting, maneuvering around cereal bowls while one scrubbed one’s hair, (when one did wash one’s much-ignored hair, that is,) but Tobi’d gotten used to it. Continue reading