I called the rain and it came. Night alone was insufficient.
Come on baby
To witness and permit my dis/quiet. My cheerless lullaby.
La, la, la, la, la
I sigh my side of the story. The dis/respect and dis/honesty. A sincere betrayal. My ridiculous indulgences. On repeat.
Baby take my hand
Loved falsely. Without strength and without fruit.
Baby I’m your man
Evicted moon and runaway stars. I laugh at the poets’ dependence on the subcelestial. Ha! I am the fool with avian heart. Writing per requirement. (By far my weakest drabble!) A dead end bitterness.
Don’t fear the reaper
I am seven years old at my cousin’s McDonald’s birthday party and I am Happy™.
I cheer the birthday girl as she opens and aahs her tower of unmemorable gifts.
Her Mommy materializes a promise pink suitcase. White-painted block letters parade purpose: Going to Grandma’s. My hard initiation to presents-inside-presents follows. Footed pajamas and a day outfit. A pouch with lip-gloss and her very own bath things. A favorite picture book to conjure candy-coated dreams.
I wish her smile to go the way of doomed balloons in the corner.
I wish I didn’t delight in this hive inside my heart.
Loneliness is like the rain.
It rises from the sea toward evening
and from distant plains moves into sky
where it ever belongs.
And from the sky it falls upon us in the city.
It rains here below in the twilight hours
when alleyways wind toward morning
and when lovers, finding nothing,
leave the failure of each other’s arms,
and when two who loathe each other
must share the same bed:
Then loneliness flows with the rivers….
~Rainer Maria Rilke, Book of Images