We Were Never Prepared For Rainy Days

Extend your hand to me.
Maybe. Maybe long enough.
Hold it out. Just a while longer.
I will reach back
…Eventually.

Foie gras terrine, bass and jazz and ocean waves.
You cannot ask the orchestra to cut their own tongue.
I had such high hopes for you,
Such high hopes.
Why, was it the right thing to let me down?

You are asking of me to cut my own tongue.
Such fuckin’ high hopes and you let them drown.
I dream of time vacuums, empty husks, and crying caves,
oil portraits of men cruelled by time. Have thee forgotten?
They ran away from crushing heel
of dime, as have I.
The inability to fathom life estimable
bear scars only laconic.
I am your votary, I argue against the apotheosis of my skin.
I’m thunder
passing through; am at the end
with my halcyon at the dragon’s neck, need I swerve,
need I slay?
Murasame.
There’d be another
waiting for me back home.
Joint bones, and you talk, and you mock.

All you do is talk, Baby. All you do is talk.
Still, I’ll always take you as you are.

How come you are,
You are frustratingly good.
But lilac-tinted glasses don’t got me fooled.
I can differentiate between butterflies and moths crawling
I kid about it,
my inconsistencies, fully fleshed,
the way I’m stone to a core. Failed, and still am failing
in finding homes, and every turn there are ghosts he knows,
A purgury of my limits.
I am not capable and I cannot deal.
Hands are fast, cards under tables.

People are complicated things. Did you not know?
Everybody comes undone with a slight push, a kiss on the neck.
The gods wept locusts and I came to life,
mangroves and cemetery by the sea,
an archipelago of my own lies,
your joie de vivre against my chromesthesia.

He dances like no other,
skims like no other,
loves like no other.
He is the way no other men had been, yet
his face was mapped in every quaking continent I’ve touched
Like I was prepared for him
and custom built for him,
for a life made for two.
What a foolish thought indeedeth.
My mouth is sour as fish laid in sundials.

We had all the lights of the eighties, a face cut for neo-noir.
The way the atmos hit his angles, featurettes, sublime.
French fries, sundaes, Cheetohs, full fat milk, energy drinks. BoJack and Hozier. A night perfected.
You are my night perfected.
Him was an attempt to living in the dim.
And in the dank, I partied alone. I wandered alone. (Still, I’ll always take you as you are.)

How can you meet someone exactly like yourself and hate them?
I asked myself that, and the rain come answer. (The storm may be far.)