Thin rain
Fills the space between storm and drought
I don’t notice it, really
But it is rotting my flowers
I float between drugs
Finding a space that is not empty
Not closed
I inhale
Searching
Scared of losing myself in the grey
Surely that would be better than losing myself in the dark?
Surely the bursts of colour are not worth the terrifying
Free falls?
I don’t notice it, really
But it is rotting my flowers
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