If poets are meant to die then god strike me down if the rain stops in mid-july i hope it’s at my house
so i can kiss his pretty face and wipe the wetness from their eyes hold him in my close embrace like they’re the most prodigious prize
his baby blue eyes follow mine watching as i check the time making sure the rain won’t clear so i have the chance to keep it here
my mama used to sing aloud for the gray to clear the sky but now i sing a different song and pray my heart won’t dry smell fresh downpour every day and feel it’s storm inside i hope for rainy days to stay and clouds to fill my mind
