Eyes are difficult because they’re teeth;Sometimes rich and gleaming, gliding through a gilded feast,Wrapped in violent red velvet, and luxurious dead ends;(But I love the) murky, melancholic, playing matted music, looking over barren fields—Fields are difficult because they’re handsKnots and rivers laying over eyes.Blue smell of rain and dirt—veins smell like the skies split open, like the road behind slipping into the past.Fingertips smell like a promise—Ten thousand graves sigh at once;A bruise is a promised haunting.“Come, just this once,” I ask, disingenuously. I mean “a thousand times.”Bruises disappear into the past and a promise draws near.An open grave plays the memory of rain when handled gently. The earth smells like fingertips on eyelids—a homeland rough and transient.Heathens love the rain like I love the shadow of your eyelashes over freckles and undiscovered celestial bodies.The sky splits open and veins cascade down nostalgically.The road behind disappears into bruised earth, into ten thousand graves. I come to you, bringing a memory of rain.