blue.

Do you miss me, or am I just imagining
that the rain keeps coming sweeping
from your heart across the sea
to streak my window
and make me melancholy sad?

I've been laughing so much lately
that desperate, cynical laugh
of someone who has been
too long out of touch with home.

We are not snails, it turns out,
so even if we turn our insides to mush,
carrying around our brittle shield,
we leave a slimy little trail
and everyone knows where we've gone
and they chase us with salt
and put an end to it all.

If we cannot slither back one day, we're goners.
And so the will says "Hold on!"