So this is what dancing
in the rain feels like—
inviting and ghastly
haunting like the chill
September winds
when you hear the
subtle rattling of raindrops
against the window pane
washing the memories clean
your face turns into a blur,
a fading hymn once
proud as an orchestra
like its brother Sun—coy and mysterious
only to shun behind the clouds
when the thunder claims dominion
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
PoezjaI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
