the little raindrops hitting the pane,
the empty people with wet hairs sticking to their faces,
i see their sore eyes and wandering hands.
they fidget because they know this cold too well,
and they’re everywhere, you see, these people.
they’re your friends when you turn your back.
they’re your lovers who you’ve left alone tonight, even though you promised.
they’re the divine who turn their wet hairs into veils that they wear not to hide, but to protect themselves from drying out in the sun.
these people, they’re the tricky folk.
they hide in the shadows of medicated winds,
they’re there in the burn of room temperature whiskey,
and in the wrenching guilt of infidelity.
they teach violent seas to dance with the rhythm of the moon
and plant butterflies in the stomachs of youths.
they wring my tongue, and ache my head, and soften my heart.
they dizzy my head with foggy sleep,
and they tingle my palms and stand the hairs straight on the back of my neck,
and they scare me half to death.
