the weight of the clouds

it’s easy to fall in love with a poet,
particularly if you’re also a poet,
waxing lustrous through heavy breaths,
whispering blades of grass into the bedsheets,
planting tulips into the mattress springs,
birds tweeting
while the bees are busy pollinating,

but there are secrets our lips won’t set free,
there are labyrinthine maps in our hearts more entrapping than any spider web,
but this is not a survival method
this is not a game,

simply two people
having a good time,
no need to overcomplicate things with convoluted confessions
borne out of your loneliness,
which writes a script, belies expectations and sets a code of conditions,

let’s flow like ribbons in the breeze,
folding and falling,
clinging and unlatching,
trilling about in a fleeting symphony suite,
trailing through city streets and upstairs bars,
breathing cathartic chaos through open mics,
cradling broken limbs in foetal position after dark,
catching shards of obliterated bones and fallen eyelashes
with the dust around our heads,

the view is kind of skewed from this cloud we’re sitting upon,
cushioned and cosy,
always a stable 21 degrees-C,
the breeze combing our hair,
malting bird feathers fall and tickle our interlocked fingers,
ever so much as drifting and back to merging,

you cannot designate a cloud, though,
clouds were never meant to be solid stagnant entities
but reshaping, drifting, combining and separating
clusters of individual particles,
if one is to get too heavy
it does not settle, more is not more,
thunder asunder into
droplets of cold tears
striking the pavement
soaking the grass
replenishing the soil
and reinventing it’s form,
reinstating it’s place,
its surroundings and the elements it merges with,

grinding my teeth
as to chew through this questioning,
why can’t this moment just be this moment,
it seems a treacherous path
that you tread
ten steps ahead
before we’ve even touched the ground

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