What the Meteorologist Let On

I couldn’t wake up and convinced myself it was because I was dreaming of you. My arm was asleep and it dragged through my dreams as I now drag through my day. Stopping to ponder the proliferation of cumulus clouds that hold no rain. I am reminded of when I watched the lightening storm rage over the ocean from my street and my despondent neighbor used foul language.

I’d say its melancholy again but I think that might be a game I’ve over played. Curiosity maybe? I thesaurusize and make conjunctions where things ought not conjunct, I find lugubrious, exaggerated indeed.

Smart cartoons revel in the ability to swear on cable and I find their allegory self-referential and depressing. I search for some other comedic relief but continue to dwell on the animated statement of cynicism. Have we out grown our own favorite things? Have we enough time in the day to question more than where to lunch?

Back to the clouds, cumulus turns and hides in nimbostratus but the rain still refuses to fall.

…

Sometimes when we lie in bed my hands are sticky and sweaty like a child’s, while your soft dry hand envelopes mine I feel inferior to you. It happens that way often; as we speed along empty streets on your motorcycle I cling to you as nonchalantly as possible, when you talk to other women I look up at you in wonder, my eyes wide like a lost puppy. When I wear polka dots your reaction is often bleak and I see you smirk at stripes as well. I’ve contemplated your persona and decided to accept it on a whole, you’ve left little room for passing judgments to sway you. Today someone said you’re more cultured then you would like to let on, whereas I like to let on as much as possible, whether it be about culture or anything else.

So here we are sticky and dry, lost and quite founded, striped and color blocked, young, immature, weary and cynical. But still no rain.