The days are long here -
they bleed into each other,
skewing the lines of yesterday
and today, of today and tomorrow -
and the nights are so desperately short.
The thing about living is that it doesn’t stop
until it does and then there’s nothing at all;
you can’t hold on to an instant, an hour, an evening.
They escape like sand on a windy day
and then your hands are empty and you’re enervated.
The weather patterns of my heart are hard to predict
and I know that at times I can send you thunderstorms
that would rival the great cleansing but I hope
that when the sun is shining it is enough to cleanse you
of all my acid rain. I hope it is enough.