The rain falls on all the usual suspects. No bees, no birds, no golden rule or noble words. It comes around to the tune of the body count and the plotting of prayers. Daylight muted by the spill of the dampened atmosphere, heart plundered and sunken in some sunset bay, all rocks and foam and the wilding waves. We want, we wait, we get served in backhanded compliments and just desserts. The patter and the badinage, all the workaday words and the mystic realms of connection spent as smoke and burn. My love always more the moon. My love a language no one knows.
The streets are slick as the storm settles in, the accustomed shush of tire tread haggling for traction singing out, the world always a moving target. The weather always alludes to the constant mutability of the receiver, the thick static of disfunction slipping through the web of sentience as the organism and the entity vie to tell the story, moon and stars and to crash like cars. Missing kisses and other missions of no return. Missing the hope and the meaning, another broken poem sealed like lips by a fingertip, the trauma of want and funky punctuation oozing from the wound. Even a muse of fire wouldn’t help.
It’s okay. I’m used to it. The mood swings always knocking it out of the park, the strange machinations of attraction and repulsion, the sickness tangled through flesh and spirit as I fail and fail. They seek you out one day, and revile you the next. I still take it personally, but it does seem to be all I am capable of any longer. Maybe it’s always been this, some slapstick amusement for the groups I cannot belong to, some unknown tradition of hunting hearts for sport. A life left to guessing and betrayal because of what the words don’t tell you. Alien and stranger, monster and scapegoat, toxic and mistaken and seemingly unable to right my course no matter the stars or the sun. My love another curse in a tongue I cannot fathom, my words another failure to communicate.