You are the drip of quench, raining down against my skin.
I am curled, hidden from forces, too strong, too wrong, too gone.
I am my own umbrella, inside out some days.
And with bad luck, if you believe in walls and places.
Open me, grope me and cope with me, enough to weather it all and when it falls, I will be still.
I am my own stinging.
Against droplets of change, I can rearrange my own storm and make it clear again.
And I have.
And you’re almost evaporated.
Sitting on the horizon, like a great nebulous matter, waiting for no-one, just chance.
Pour your heart out.
You know I’ll dance in it.