Conversations with Thunderstorms

There isn't anything that can't be sold. That won't. Sour. The execution is after so much planning on doing. Nothing but turns. Turning. Chasing metal rabbits running on electric fences. Nothing to want other than myself. All these frailties sugaring my blood. Emotional diabetes. Heat wave under my skin and I can't make it rain anymore. No matter how tight I squeeze those clouds.

There's no rain left. Nothing.

I want it to be there. For it to hurt again. Like it did. Picking shadow off each other when only words were ours. Turning t-shirts into stretchers when broken was our summit. It hurt so much better than I ever thought it could. Your fingers the branding iron. My loneliness the leather.

It doesn't rain anymore.

Not like it used to. Sometimes I get wet.

But I want to drown in it. Like I did then.

Shivering. As frail as I need to be. A new suicide in every kiss.