The rain had moved in, settled, down poured,
Tomorrow's forecast, much the same as this.
In a moment though, momentary lapse, word;
I found a sun, or perhaps you carried it here.
It will wax or wane, who trusts a weatherman,
But it matters, if only to you; shapes meaning.
So we built a chain, first one letter, then word,
strung together brushstrokes, something new.
Becomes a painting no one else sees, but we.
In folds of grey, it becomes blinding at times!
It cannot remove it, but it can eclipse for now.
For now; all I ever wish, what you always give.
Grey becomes tired, sleep a spell; leaves me.
Jagged round the edges but good for a smile.
This is where the days go, down a black hole,
But sucks down the light too, and we keep it,
Sometimes to ourselves, sometimes to them.
Even if it is fleeting; tomorrow is a new grey.
None else hears the intricacies of good, too.
It amuses me, like your silly puzzles for you.
There's no face value, even as values a face.
You always rise, even as I speak in raindrops.
I become topple-prone, but you lean against.
Backwards tug of war in words and phrases.
Your turn, spin me tales of windows or woes.
My turn, hear my flustering fault lines through.
Turn prisms to it, trade me a wave, gives rays.
It is good; tomorrow to be was, but not now.
And becomes energy; skull a sounding board.
To let sleep, lain in the crook of today's smile.