Stick around and taste the honey on his cold, stone lips
and trace outlines of every skin cell around the thumbnails he uses to push lovers' pins into the ground.
Stick around and connect the dots on every leaf his messy hair has trapped
while I sip my coffee in the window,
watching the rain pour down.
In the meantime, race the raindrops in hopes for a beam of light, because the clouds never clear in his foggy, misleading, choir-like singing eyes.