You should've come over

Rain in these skies

are like sheets of smoke

they growl only silently 

behind, melancholic mockery

Like your cold hugs

they rush past my silhouette

and, scratch patterns on my walls

through wine bottles on the windowsill

This air smells like newspapers

under the old coffee table,

and pennies from my aunt's purse

they smell rhubarb jelly Christmas cake.

But the pallor of these rheumatic mornings

envelop my plume of thoughts

no, slumped at my feet, bed- ragged

as a grassland in oblivian.

If oceans were made of tears

and skies of joy,

then this must be joyful tears.

But they're not...

and these are the grasslands they nourished.

These dew drops must belong to you

and the mist

and the ardour

and the fake Christmas smiles too.

It's no surprise that this is the harvest we reap.

Because after all,

you never came. 

The End

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