Random poem

[lishesque]

Wrote this one in London ages ago (during the winter). Found it on a scrap piece of paper:

I went to listen to the playlist
Made for you and found it deleted
Apparently in a fit of bitterness
Unremembered, or a glimmer of
Wisdom at last, perhaps.
My fingertips ache from the cold
With no song to strum, and the summertime
Strains of that harmonica
No longer swell like hope.