Like the last spell
of receding rains
your memories have returned.
Moist clouds smear the sky
like condensed steam
set on cold glass
in illegible script.
Could they be a train of thoughts?
Or, bizarre shapes of illusive want?
From the peak of summer
till the first showers
I waited for the weather
to tell
which way it was going -
a deluge of emotions
or a drought of warm words.
But the clouds, as always,
were flippant.
Floating errant desires,
out of reach from earth.
The day you smiled at me
I could hold them
in my grasp.
The day you left
they slipped from my fingers
like raindrops.
