On some of my better days

I rise before the sun does

That darkness, the hopeful kind

Cradles me the way that my front yard

Holds rainwater for too long.

 

And why is it that when

The sun comes up I feel

A drop of rain slide down

From the inner corner of my eye

Into the corner of my mouth?

 

What did I lose last night

Between then and four

In the morning, Why am

I in mourning, for friends

And love I dreamt of?

 

Still hazy and with the

Taste of sickly-sweet

Pillow-speak, sorry,

Sometimes I talk in my sleep,

To myself, to no one, to nothing.

 

The only constant I have,

Is gone when I try to

Derive its existence,

The smell of rain on concrete

Filling my lungs like

 

I wished the memories that

I don’t have filled my skull

To the brim, overflowing like

The gutter seven inches

From my bedroom window.

 

Too often puddles make

Me laugh, holding hands with

Anxiety and wet socks,

They make signs warning of

The dangers of a wet floor

 

But who checks in on the clouds

Aloof, impressive, vulnerable

Maybe if someone checked in

They wouldn’t cry so often

And I wouldn’t be able to feel rain on the pavement.