On copying someone else, losing them then losing one’s self

.

.

Not rain

but a fog of half asleep ghosts

.

.

Not funny ones who scream in movies

but scary ones who stare on streets

.

.

Not with eyes eager to judge

but with hands ready to break

.

.

Not with words to cage your soul

But with gestures to bleed your heart open

.

.

Not with blood you hide in every pocket

But with tears you slip on with every dance

.

.

Not that there’s nothing to do

But it’s already twenty past the right move

And every forecast is in the horizon

But not rain