Crooked rain, pounding sideways inside my head, the smell of sick heat, I'm sweating, sticking to my bed. Caught between the dirt buried beneath the street and the concrete; theres never any space for me.
I'm much too weak (you're much too late) to shoulder your weight.
So when the first flowers push out of the cold dead earth, and the last light seems so late, I will try my hardest to ward off the void, so maybe we can meet somewhere in between.