A short post

After reading some of Monkey Boy's stuff, I've decided to post my very own poem. It doesn't have a name. Try reading it out loud, paying careful attention to punctuation, (resting at commas and periods, etcetera.)

In late autumn, the wind scratches sandpaper on my face.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but the sun peels them open.
If only I can survive one more month.

Half a world away, you've stopped waiting.

Years later, I had seen you, ironing laundry, softly,
but that is only what I need—not the reality of this heat.
I'm still in my fatigues.