I feel like it has been raining for years.
And I will wake up tomorrow, webbed and gilled, a green-skinned lily-pad.
My eyes slick sliver, like salmon skin.
I sit here, watching the skies melt, with a kitten wrapped around herself. She is unaware of this other wet world; this place without food, without fires; warm beds, and sleepy heads.
Myself, well, I am drawn to the grey.
The strange semi-stillness of a night drawing near.
Coming home with a grocery bag filled with potential.
Mugs of piping chai, thick woolen blankets, and the tap, tapping of a lost-lover’s knock on my window panes.
The SOS of ten thousand teardrops.
And I see the lights across the river, blinking.
Like an old man, lost in thought.