It's a quiet Sunday,
and I barricade myself indoors.
As a steady rain soaks the streets
all the laundry still hangs outside.
I listen to it tap the tin roof I sit under,
and I hear my thoughts echo off the walls.
My friends dance in my mind,
and a million miles ripple between us.
This rain has fallen on me before,
but never amidst such a dense forest of concrete giants.
My lungs have inhaled this wet spring air before,
but never in a South Atlantic September.
This whole year seems made up.
Like I've stepped into a Salvador Dali painting,
and I'm trying to make sense of that melting clock.
My closet is perpetually a suitcase,
and the only ones who seem to recognize me are
the woman I wake up next to,
my brown leather boots,
and the unshaven crazy-looking guy in the mirror.
I stare at him and he smiles back.
I ask the crazy guy why he's smiling?
The clock's not melted,
the canvas is blank,
and all the answer's are in your shadow.
And for a few moments,
the echo stops.