Saturday night. Walking out of the library.
The stars are all blotted out
by the halfway storm. The ground
is too flat. Wading through the two inch
deep puddle is better than slogging
through the muddy grass, but my socks
are left squelching in my shoes.
Sleepless lights blur the falling rain
into harrowing auras. Fat drops slough
off tree branches, slither across my
stress fracture of a hairline. The wind
turns rain sideways, leaving chilly
traces to echo on exposed legs. But your dorm
room, and soggy night tiredly turns to
midnight, Just Dance on your unvacuumed
floor, Cheeto Puffs, tasting your jokes
on my lips, a song on the ukulele, that stupid
cheetah print futon, star signs,
power outages. I slip off my wet socks,
curl into your warm side where there is lightning
with no rain.
----
apr 9, 2017
i swear i wrote this the 9th, i just didn't post it. but yes, i am also very behind. calm down.
YOU ARE READING
watterson
Poetryan experimental attempt to write a poem a day for the month of april spoiler alert: i did it
