The raindrops in the foreground
often block out the background.
It rained that night, and in the
morning the gravel was wet.
I walked barefoot anyway
to the car I hadn't driven
in a month.
They came from nowhere
and while I curled into
a ball in my bed
I could not hold it anymore.
What weighty burdens
we often bear.
I could write you in the evening
after dusk brought color and then
final darkness to my night.
Or in the afternoon on my parents
painted porch, on the swing that
doesn't sit perfectly strainght.
What conditional sacrafices we have
deterined for ourselves.
Great waves of the dismal ends,
the infinite universe.
Is it me, or who you think I am?
How many times we build up
and up, towards our skies.
Can we sit on your couch and laugh
about how inconsistant we find
our lives?
You cannot come to sit with me
though I will save a seat for you anyway.
