you stood not too tall,
and not too short but enough in
underlying sun-kisses of
the mulberry feathers of your hair,
falling grapevines upon the bottled rain
but you,
you wore it like pixie dusts from the stars
above your candy apple parasol,
and you spoke words,
you puff a smoke,
and it kills me so
and you exhale words,
words that make the rain,
the rain to be a beautiful, brilliant mess