And his exposed elbows.
The clouds parted to reveal a sky
As electric as his light blue eyes
As electric as his long-anticipated stare, he turned to me.
Springtime was hardly springtime
When the rain drops began to pelt
The rotting log on that black sand,
Shaped like a reclining human, soaking a sun that wasn't there.
His low-spoken words overshadowed by the
Cicadas' chatter, soon to be
Empty shalls of of caramel color clinging to
One of many blooming trees
In this bay, vegetation forever blooming
And every soul never blooming.