This holiday, every repeating year. I take to the lights. And in the light the rain comes down hard. I wished for days of rain. My sky holds the clouds , the voices of rain burst open, soon to be dismissed by other reigns breaking through to touch my skin. I am ready to retire as the clouds wither, and with them the tame notion of time, which I so perfectly conditioned to step in each footprint of mine. A companion – time, barely, or rather smug – no, I feel the pull of the tender, the frail, and I wander and admire the crawl of my dissolving cloud, running down the breadth of my arm, a mere trickle seeping in and out of me. Who am I?

I tug at the sweet crease drawing the outline of my heart, disintegrating each beat in muted devotion for a single moment. A crack in time is a strange emperor. I lay at its feet, dust settling on every heel of existence. Only the chronology of events remains unshaken. I feel the rupture. I say tear and speak not of rain or eye – by some odd choice , I willingly accept. Loud, I think, when in truth so hushed and unuttered all lays bare. Or I, and cloud.

To waft on a cripple is a sentiment of the human wrinkle. I ram my totality into the sky. Union is no false promise as the heart beats on. Retiring removes some seeking , revealing a vacancy I only supposed empty, when calm was always, always present. Placid. Or, what other tranquil breath? Freedom, the relaxed kingdom infuses me , and hands me over – I am still guessing the word of the year. Only I am the word, and the cloud and the rain, and the sky holding both against the backdrop of every admirable fiber of life. Now skin and membrane, electrostatic discharge pushing through heel and ankle, oozing life, unloading dimension after dimension in no particular direction. Totality is my closest embrace.