She met him
Like a gentle rain pouring
Touching her skin
Healing the wounds
Of yesterday

She has to go away
For the purpose of
Painting the smile in his face

His laughter
Her tears
They will never meet
Just like in her dreams

She now sees the sky
The rain is going to fall again
But not like before...

The sun is coming.
The rain will end.
Hope is approaching!
Can you see it?
The last raindrop has fallen and
The clouds are rolling back.
Light is peeking through!
Can you see it?
The face of the sun
Emerges and shines.
Hope has arrived!
*Can you see it?

Place silhouette pieces or outlines of my heart in thirty or more envelopes.
Paste each one with a new soft paintbrush which clean cream bristles. Push them into torn up fragments of clean new watercolour paper. The sharp edges feel through onto the wooden table leaving mistaken, accidental grooves. Glimmers of sawdust are ****** up into the pockets of your lungs, where they contaminated and will permanently sit.
It was a small heart, the colour of grey sky reflected on seas and carried in bloated raindrops. The texture of diamond. Carved up as easily as wax by a blunt butter knife.
The envelopes are neatly labelled with white tailors chalk powders.

You made me a race
from the womb to
the itch and stretch
of a world for me
to traverse around.

Inches then meters
to stride against:
first the garden to
the park's expanse,
by then countries

are feet then miles,
and so I become like
the drip of cloud-tears
on car window panes,
shooting themselves

down the weathered
sheet to be closer
to an end of journey
that feels measured
by the centimetre.