rainy fridays always bring the most peculiar companions. in these downpours come ideas, amplified drumming on the hood in front of me. this car, loud, under boistrous skies. sound cuts when we pass under overs, thoughts rile up loud in the ears, words threaten to spill. between sentences they still lurk and sneak, or so it seems.
it’s a code. i feel like it’s shared, but often i’m wrong. the words i say are never the words you think i mean. eyes always get me, whether sitting on a chair or a stool. patterns patterned after hurricanes move easy over top, noiseom beneath. it’s where we always end up, then - in trouble. i’d like to say it’s making more sense to me now. but it’s a friday, so it isn’t.