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Description
I wasn't thirsty until you shoved water in my face, chilly drops sliding down your chin in a waltz only rain could perfect. You always did try (and fail) to dance like the rain: in trial upon trial you would stumble and fall without realizing you'd knocked me down in the process. I have a feeling now that it was because you'd forgotten you don't listen to nature anymore; that it's the sound of gasoline burning in fuel tanks and mechanical cranes pretending to fly that inspires you.

(Or so my subconscious still whispers.)

Then I remember that it's simply how you've always worked, scratching your fingernails down telephone poles before picking up. And you (still) walk each street in both directions. (I hope) you'll stop before you reach the end, but I don't like to wish on stars that are just barely visible between skyscrapers, and apparently neither do you.

The next day you'll speak of tribulations and eagle's wings and crosses and the number seven, all run-on sentences, and never to my face. (Each of them tells your tale, but never seems to get it right.) I was never able to pin you down to a bulletin board like Stargirl's butterfly wings, and it (still) worries me that the status quo may be just another fraudulent report. Because smiles are nothing but grimaces if there is no reason for them to show themselves.

And yet, with every ounce of strength left in these feeble fingers, I'm (still) trying to hold on to something that never was. Or perhaps it is something still in progress, like the city suburbs and the beating of our hearts?

Because
(I hope)
(and fail)
(still)

(Or so my subconscious still whispers.)

Description
I wasn't thirsty until you shoved water in my face, chilly drops sliding down your chin in a waltz only rain could perfect. You always did try (and fail) to dance like the rain: in trial upon trial you would stumble and fall without realizing you'd knocked me down in the process. I have a feeling now that it was because you'd forgotten you don't listen to nature anymore; that it's the sound of gasoline burning in fuel tanks and mechanical cranes pretending to fly that inspires you.

(Or so my subconscious still whispers.)

Then I remember that it's simply how you've always worked, scratching your fingernails down telephone poles before picking up. And you (still) walk each street in both directions. (I hope) you'll stop before you reach the end, but I don't like to wish on stars that are just barely visible between skyscrapers, and apparently neither do you.

The next day you'll speak of tribulations and eagle's wings and crosses and the number seven, all run-on sentences, and never to my face. (Each of them tells your tale, but never seems to get it right.) I was never able to pin you down to a bulletin board like Stargirl's butterfly wings, and it (still) worries me that the status quo may be just another fraudulent report. Because smiles are nothing but grimaces if there is no reason for them to show themselves.

And yet, with every ounce of strength left in these feeble fingers, I'm (still) trying to hold on to something that never was. Or perhaps it is something still in progress, like the city suburbs and the beating of our hearts?

Because
(I hope)
(and fail)
(still)

(Or so my subconscious still whispers.)