Rainfall

After the rain falls and the water soaks
into the ground and the sun warms the surface
of the dirt getting what dampness remains there,
maybe then I will think of you. Think of you
how you want me too. Think of you as you are
not as you were to me.

Maybe when the clouds are gone and the sun is
allowed to shine through in order to dry up any
wetness that lies on the surface, then I may
think of you like you want me too.

But as it stands, the frigid rain still falls upon my rusted
roof and no light comes shining through the holes
in the cold tin.

My foundation remains in ruin, slowly
slipping from under my feet as the rain issues forth
downward from rivers overflowing, drowning
the stone majesties around me.

Ask me now what I think of you and I will tell you
that I see you as nothing, nothing but a hole in this
poor tin roof, as I try to ride out the storm.
The pitiful love I once held for you is only the empty space
under my once hardened tin roof,
now broken down and wrecked.

Nothing more can be of you than a growing hole
in someones roof.