When it rains,
it soars; the sense
that you have torn out
the stuffing from all 19 of my Kristang hearts
and laced it all along
the rivers that crowd along the sky. Loud
and quietly gentle, a pattering
against the start
of something the colour of
some, unknown definition of purity;
the candour of some, far too well- known inhibition
of parity.
White means white;
brown means
something not found
on the earth any longer.
Something left barren,
something left to the mercy of
one's own disdain.
I wish you knew I was in the air;
I wish you knew how it felt to say farewell to you.
No, I haven't blocked you yet,
but my mind's made up. I gave you
so many fucking chances
and you treated me like
I wasn't worth it.
When you and I know, when we go flying in the sky:
the best in this vein
will tell you that the clouds make other shapes.
That no matter how furtive
the Earth, Charisma herself
cannot possibly lie
when there is a surfeit,
a pale, ghostly dancing---
a beach on the wind made only of grains of man far too light.
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