April 17 : Almost Rain

It might rain.
In the telltale shimmer of
dying flowers, the
petals on this polished floor
scratching against the wooden door.
Clanging bottles. City sounds.
In the bottom of my glass
(when almost nothing is left)
all I see is your resentment
(those eyes, oh, the knives)
Perhaps that's my fear, oh dear.

Monosyllabic and cynical
the line of conversation
hangs on a string so loose
that my words never seem
to reach your ears.
Or yours mine.

Thunder against the windows
fluttering leaves (and lives).
I'm afraid to say
what I really want to
(there will be no entanglement
this illusion will shatter
once taut, our strings will
break with a touch and that is why)
I am afraid.

The wind rushes at the walls
with the anger of a thousand horsemen
and I clench my fist
under the table
and I tighten the knot
of my legs till I can almost
feel nothing anymore
But I smile at you gently,
comfortingly. Because that
is what you deserve. My love.

Lightning
and then it's all so bright
blinding
for a second your eyes
for a second you seem to
understand
and the flash passes and
I might die
here in this booth with you
tonight.

The night is dark
my insides are dark
and I can feel the searing pain
in my eyeballs
only when I let my lids droop.
I might just collapse
into this night
(and then will
my dreams and ambitions
and fears and nightmares
all compress into a point
somewhere where I am
or was
and create a vortex
sucking everything
into the infinity of darkness
that my presence left behind?)

The glass panes rattle
with the effort of staying whole.
So do I
perhaps (hopefully), so do we.
Sitting unburnished
in the dark still night.