Not Getting Wet

It’s raining but I’m not getting wet.
Is this my first or my last cigarette?
Were I to count back the moments to when we met,
it would be over a hundred, I bet.

One for when, in the lake, we were bare.
Another: the shower we’d sneakily share.
A hard one’s the tears of your pregnancy scare.
And the time when rain settled in your hair.

But now it’s raining and I’m not wet.
I just lit my first cigarette.
You haven’t answered my messages yet,
and you’re with him in a place I can’t get.

Is he the deep pool of calm that I know you seek,
the ticket to waves of appearance so sleek?
Masculinity pours out to cover the weak,
and you awash in compliance, so meek.

It’s raining all day; I can’t get wet.
I swear this fag’s had her last cigarette.
Had it been up to me I’d never have let
you in, and I’d have no regret.


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