Grey days are when the clouds puff a tantrum,
Smoking the sky out of its cozy, azure, play-space
With a big fuzzy blanket that covers the high plains,
And no holes for the blue to poke through.

Occasionally, they spout out their tears
And pelt the poor people below
With a loaded water pistol.

And such people sprout out umbrellas,
Or search for storm's shelter,

Yet one person always prefers to drown in clouds' melancholy.

I would
Gladly open
The windows
Of my heart
But I'm afraid
The weather
Is too cloudy
For your liking

because loving you
is like trying to stargaze
on a cloudy night

The way the rain splatters
against the windows of the car
as it drifts through the city.
Each droplet looks like a tear
as it streaks its way across the pane.

serein touches my fingertips
so sour, but so sweet

Cloudy;
my world is
hazy
tound the edges.

I’m walking with a
vignette filter
on my eyes,
like glasses I can’t remove.

But I’m sober,
I think.
I’ve been high, yes,
most days;
but not today.
I’ve drunk, yes,
always too much;
always ending in aches and
some sorrow;
but that was last night;
not today.

I already know that tomorrow’s
forecast is cloudy
too.