Raindrops raining rings
On coffee cup surface.
Too wet to care,
I remain seated on the slab
Of concrete

By the containers.
Oil and filth creep into fresh
Cuts and scratches.
I ignore my hands itching,
Drink and exhale.

I could be a millionaire
Throwing cash at the shadows of
My emptiness, or a holy man
Preparing for Tukdam with
Nothing but his robes to

His name. Anything but this
In-between existence devided
Between too much work and
Not enough free time or sleep.
What am I doing here, should

Be the last words they'd watch
Me think. The concrete won't
Answer. The coffee won't comfort
My restlessness.
But the rain replies:

You're living.
"And what are you doing here?"  
I counter.

*Raining.

Does this hurt?*
Yes.

It hurts like seeing your
Childhood home for the last time.

Nothing stings like your skin catching
Sparks from a bridge burning,

Like resting scalpel on chest and
Sliding to access the heartful of

Thorns, then changing to tools of
Extraction.

What am I doing here, would be
The last words they'd watch me

Think. Now I remain with the
Question, eyes turned to where I'd

Like to see Heaven holding divine
Wisdom and offering it,

Getting nothing but rain in my eyes
And silence.

All homes are temporary.
The smell of lilac floating down

The street will always take me back
To when that bridge connected one heart

Set on forever to one set on for now.
I run the tips of my fingers across

The scar of scalpel; a map from Death to
Life; lying flatline;

Temporary, temporary rest.
I was never meant to stay, I whisper

Into what I know is coming.
Will this hurt?

Yes.
*Good.

Work gloves are for winter.
It's time to grow thick skin
In our palms;
Red drops on white wood

Are sure signs of summer.
Soon splinters reach no
Nerves, knees become insensitive
To gravel and roof tile roughness

As our bodies learn the annual
Lessons many hearts fail to
Learn in a
Lifetime.

If some day
I should pass you
clothed in shades
of pale pastel

all I ask
is turn your face
from my failing
sense of taste...