Out of dust we are,
Which answers the question
Of why I love the rain,
Skin run along like sandpaper,
Scratching and mostly unpleasant
I have been made in the rough
And the rough I have become
But when the scent of rain comes
I can’t help but let myself
Become soft to its touch.
Run along to make the feeling
Of my skin more pleasant
But why does it stop so suddenly?
A month straight of rain
And no sun
Then all gone in an instant
Letting the skin I let get soft
Crack and bleed
From the lack of your touch.
Where did it go?
Who thought it was okay
To tell someone you loved them the day before,
So they woke up the next
Blocked.