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.