a cliche hammers redundantly on the window and sunday kind of love
is a beautiful woman and the lightning is a silly boy
but the frenetic strobe of his midnight wall dance isn't the sort of thing beautiful women go for
but your broken down nerves have a soft heart and so your tired feet dance wildly
beneath the covers and your legs along with them
because your legs are lovable idiots who would follow your feet around the world and back
and irony is bored so he skips a couple tracks and laughs as pushover strikes up
and sleep grins as she joins in with your frenzied joints
and your pillow is a couch and your face is a scared girlfriend who can't sink far enough into it
the wind considers whistling but that seems too typical and so it blows raspberries along the walls
and makes faces in the windows because in the
weather hierarchy, the wind is just an impotent brat who makes noise and knocks things over
and once again all of this was really supposed to be about you but you ended up
being me and I've poetried myself into a corner
because really you're a deep sleep and I'm a midnight storm and if you'd only just open the window...
