And if time is so layered or not,
The rain still etches away at the rock.
Peace still drives the hope of my loss,
And I still fall on my own thoughts.
But she still dazzles in that rain
With feeling coming back to her own weight.
Reminding her of some hot days
Where the path she laid went her own way.
That time she bore was, to me, a present.
A familiar craze in any instance.
It lent comfort to me in my own heaven.
She’s been known to have a little tequila, pregnant.