Monteviejo Winter   Puddles bootcrunch, leaves once green are without vein, tobacco colour, and staccato rain finds the unseen skylight leak, half a basin of tears crying onto our one-sided bed. Do not use the ladder, you’ve said picturing me swallowdive from its rungs armed with gun and sealing silicone.   You worry about me healing here alone abandoned farms, no neighbours or phone as though if we are always together neither of us can ever die. But you choose not to come here until Spring begins its lie about perpetuity or summer cooks the slates so hot we hopscotch…