You never quite tell me,
and I am left unsure.
Hidden in the shadows,
lost in the dark.

You filter through
distant meanings,
never quite forming
a right angle.

And I float,
among unformed words,
wondering
yet not quite sure.

Four bare walls
and a ceiling,
that's all it's become.

Chilled by the
passing rain.
A bucket,
that's all it's become.

Midnight stars
peer through the cracks.
Only to hide
in shame.

Barren and cold,
wintered and wet.

Four bare walls
and a ceiling.
That's all it's become.

Your face has been
Obliterated, by
This midnight rain.

A small smear
Against cold pavement.

Merely an afterthought –
Forgotten as it dries.