saturday storm

I was

down in

a long park, rife with

the combatants of Saturday weather

diving through sunbeams to avoid the coming storm

as it rumbled in the background of cliché, through london

baked pre-summer half turned over with a smattering of green and blue

spring

we sat with angular men, drawing blue corners around shaded eyes

squinting to filter the light of our faces and hide the light in our eyes

as the rain came, we denied it

pushing back it's coming importance, weaving through droplets of

inevitable wetness, drenching our shoulders,

pulling my eyes towards the lack of cloth on your

lower neck

forming dotted patterns on your splotch-framed cool attitude

and you danced in it too

all toes and the rest

but it's the rest

the rest

the rain went, but the sun never came back

tired from weeks of overexposure and the anticipation of christians

longing for the modest cover of grey, pulverised water

so we sat under a tree, hiding the sky

in a swinging boat of warmth and acceptance

dipping our toes into the exploration of self and

expensive cocktails

I looked into your eyes a thousand times that day,

and every time your eyes blinked with divinity

with a forgotten importance of the dark edges of blue

with soft, sharp, steel gaze I just wanted to bleed through it

and see the back side of your brain and your mind

I watched your lips as you read my words, looking for hints of a

hidden smile

one that you might want me to look for

one that might have the sky and the moon in it

that night, I don't remember the moon, but I saw it within you

that night, I don't remember the moon,

but I remember you