Waiting For Rain

There is an alternate universe, somewhere

a faux-ironic world where flowers gather

to decide colors each is willing to wear, and what

the sunlight is going to look like tomorrow morning. There

must be a world where colors fight amongst themselves, maybe

this one, even. May be we do not see, the heartbreak

of purple as it follows the scarlet of dusk, painting itself over

the remnants of clouds which huddle together, as if

frozen by the winter.

Nights, scare themselves easily, worse than

sleep, blinking and cowering frightened at the first

argument between you and I, ever lost in the

mazes of correct conduct, cold snowflakes falling around our feet

much like down from a pillow-fight which did not

happen. I kissed your brow, and your lips, and

let go of your hand. And tore out the pillows to imagine

the cold. This is lonely, this is cold, I tell myself, it is

raining, I mutter to myself, staring at the blinding sun, I

let my eyes cloud like the skies should be, and

fervently wish for rain.

Evening comes, cloudless and colorful,

beige, then scarlet, by turns purple and ink and black, and

it murmurs with the wind, sounding for all the world like

the hum of a favorite song one hears far away, but

cannot quite make out the words of. And the wind

begins screaming, all of a sudden, clouds jostling with

nowhere to go. There is dust in my eyes, but I know,

tonight there will be no rain.