Rain Man

bring forward the dramatic entrance of souls, he beckons, because it is all 

feeling—the crispness of leaves scattering the sidewalk with all their 

chlorophyll staining the concrete; nostalgia longing for the swings on 

the playground we'll never go back to. lollipops and boom boxes and 

recesses that never ended. turning the volume higher, playing with 

toy cars and paper airplanes that could somehow soar higher than we 

could jump. the sun hits the trees at just the right angle, illuminating  

windows with the slightest gleam of reflection. it's cold and kids are 

sniffling as such, tiny lungs hugging the chilly air because the whole  

earth is contained in a breath. begging, insecure attachment, and it 

ain't enough. fragile friendships dropped from a height as though 

they don't matter—the distance between us varies and I fear it'll 

all vanish; this pain that manifests as parasitic nothingness. rippled 

clouds—at least you're addressing the problem—shiny hair and 

empty souls. to sleep or sleep not, that is the question, because inspiration 

strikes late at night, when you cry, and what is the reason for your 

tears? is it because the world is all messed up? I think there it 

is, the falling asleep on a small boat the fishermen made. bring

forth the exit, and the boat leaves.