It only rained in patches here or there
today, as if the world was still unsure
of how to handle all this time alone.
Ignore the clock, but beg the grass to grow
when you’re away, eyes locked upon the lights.
The rain won’t wait, though sometimes it may slow,
that I could just catch up if I could fly.
10:30 now, the sidewalks are still wet,
though more so now than those streaked cheeks of yours.
The carpet’s texture is a new-found friend,
but up above, a sickly, hollow glow
reminds you that there’s always time to sleep
if you, by chance, grow sick of being you.
Stare down the ceilings— what more can you do?
Galaxies and Flaws 