difference

As it turns out I missed the rain. By the time I dotted and crossed all the letters left to my afternoon routine the storm had come and gone. I look forward to sitting outside and smoking as the rain falls, but as I have no smokes anyway, it probably would have wound up feeling just as sad. Seems I’m always missing something. 

Now I’m sitting out on the back porch, music on shuffle, letting the wind have its way. A gang of sparrows voice their intentions and objections all at once. The clouds act as both gobos and gels, shifting the lighting on the stage. I watch as the sky changes its mind, light and shadow, shape and radiance. The sparrows carry on, as only the true souls do. I sit and mope, like the useless dope I am. No one seems to know the difference.

I was always the last one picked, always the first one fired. I’ve never made it easy for anyone, especially myself. I know my friends did their best. I know my loves did their damnedest. I know I’m the reason no one speaks to me without being spoken to. I can see the fear in every face. But the wind blows through and the storm moves on and the days take wing in droves. A few stray droplets fall, silver beads backlit by the westering sun. One moment, then the next, with little to hold or show. A time lapse life, the fox in the forest rippling with hungry mouths. Streaks of drizzled droplets cast out of heaven.