She must have come here in the pouring rain.
In the form of the pouring rain.
Falling down the roof.

Down you hair, if you’re outside. Down your temple, your face. Kissing your skin.

Reaching my skin, draped over my body like a warm blanket…
A wonderful thought.

You may not be aware of that single drop,
but she did kiss your skin before she fell down the pavement.

Like promises on your favourite park bench.

How does the sound of the guitar strums,
travelling down your headphone chord
from the other end of the world
sounds like?

While, at almost four in the morning,
you pressed your back on the wall
constructed on the other end
of this big, wide world.

sheds nothing
but pretense
and unrequited love.
It's exhausting, really.
Your sheer lack of substance.