Sometimes all you need to admit that you're uncharacteristically cool with all of this is a bit of liquid courage and a pinch of frustrated madness swished around until you're sarcastically committing to loving the **** out of your current situation with a vague suspicion that you're not actually being ironic.

Soft-wedged between twin expanses of amber sky,
the lemon form of the most delicate cloud I've ever seen:
ripples of cotton billows in purest white
floating high above my supine body.

Barely held within, the coalescing vapors of an imminent torrent;
a secret shower to which I am the sole divulgent.

To the south, a tower stands *****, twitching in the wind as if with anticipation. Its weather beacon gleams with a pattern indicating a sudden downpour.

Oh, dear gossamer form of cotton sweetness, how you swell and darken, distending pregnant with your promised release.
From white to translucent as the first drops can be seen,
granting a coveted glance of the inner-workings to mother nature's daily intimacies.

Drenching me in bliss that stings and blinds.
Purifying this ***** earth by choking out every stray flying thing that exists between you and me.
Mouth agape and mind blank like fowl that can't help themselves from looking away,
drowning on one divine mouthful.

Not the product nor conclusion, but the case that merely holds it.
The theory that posits without endeavoring to ever actually prove it.
You are but the hook, the hanger, the mannequin that displays the lifestyle you'll never have the courage to actually wear outside the store that made it.
Doomed to hide in other peoples' lives.
Relishing the moments when someone else is reflected in the mirror.

The glow of streetlight bled through rows of aluminum,
streaking the scene in shadow.
An off-season quiet stirring in the bones,
and the intermittent flash of a moth's wings.
The echo of cicadas drowning out everything.
A hum to follow you home.

Contrary to what you may be thinking,
I am not a contrairian.
I like to play Angel's Counsel to your Devil's Advocate, but not just because I've been drinking.
(Though, to be fair, I have been, but forgive me. I'm celebrating.)
Anything worth debating always has two sides.
Try seeing them both for a change before dividing the lines.
And while it may sound contradictory at times, and doesn't end in a rhyme,
just meet me in the middle, *******!

The spiral down.
The leaking of pocketed things
swirling above towards sunlight:
3D text of a spilled life.

What you did.
Who you loved.
The things you ate and the things that ate you up.

Awakening in reverse.
A return to the obscurity from which you were born.

The sea keeps no record,
marks nothing in stone,
but sings a eulogy for everyone ever lost to it
heard from any coast.