Saturday, 11 February 2012

the smell of dust after rain.


i want to see the mountains
in Siberia, and
i want to see the raindrops
in your hair
but you always use an umbrella
and warn me that i’ll catch a

i like to dance, sometimes.

your interactive dysphoria reflects
in the puddles, and
i can’t always protect you from the
nightmares which glow in your

rain pools around the windows i
leave open, and absorbs into patterns
you’ll never see on the floor.
you’re observant but stubborn, and
the crackling linoleum
doesn’t hold your worry for long.

i’m sorry your monsters illuminate
your fears, and
i’m sorry my monsters won’t grow
into lights.
i guess what i’m trying to say is
i’m sorry i take you for granted.

i’m tired, too.


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