Camden market, where I came by
those shoes on your feet. A comfortable fit
to make this mountain climb an easier course,
with a sky of clouds to conquer,
autographed with the mind’s eye.
To finish the picture,
sometimes, we painted our own clouds.
Called this one cumulonimbus,
another formed the shape we know as shame
next to those of cotton-candy kindness
frozen in time. This pattern came
and stayed, covering the stars
like a foggy window pane
and sending down showers of shadows
we forgot were homemade,
but our cheeks will always wet the same
when our skin meets one another’s pain
and mine are still soaked through
from being too soft or hard on you.
Each counted towards the chance of an impending storm
and luck was skirting the lightning strikes
that tracked our every step,
as moonlight fell on this divided town.
Until one of us, lost
the other one, left
both chasing the finer weather.