Euphoria is born on a lazy Sunday morning,
Wrapped in a blanket, fingers gently grazing
Your collarbone, or combing through messy sleep-hair
As you plant a kiss on my cheek, and whisper
A soft good morning in my ear.
In a kiss shared over a sparkling skyline,
Where fingers would freeze in moonlight wind,
Your touch is soft, and numbs the sting.
The love we found was a heavenly kind
So I’m convinced you are an angel – mine.
Old lovers, old friends, had beginnings and ends,
But as my grip slips from the recollection, vines wind
Their way up a sleeping spine to twist into my sleeping mind,
Thorns hooked onto the memory, grown into a dream –
Becoming a dance with the familiar amongst the unseen.
I can’t touch the heart of the rain, it can only touch me
As it slips right through my fingers
Where a liquid hand can’t be held.
And the rain may have a beat but it’s too soft and quick
To be human and too rhythmic to be alive.
The rain never stutters or skips a beat
And I can dance in it but it can’t dance with me.
I can speak a soliloquy and pretend the rain is listening
But it can never confess a single secret back to me.
The rain may smell like a breath or a familiar comfort
But the rain is everything that has ever felt lonely.