Syllable

Sometimes life feels like a voiceless consonant:
You obstruct the air and wonder why you can't breathe.
That friend of yours has become
a militant interdental fricative
and the music that's supposed to cheer you up
sounds like an arbitrary row of stridents.
Your thoughts behave like glottal stops: hardly important!
Or are just as non-existent as a postalveolar nasal.

Suddenly, you get kissed by a vowel
or fly high
make a tour through the sky
with a diphtong and realize:
all you're longing for
is life as a sensible
wise and meaningful
syllable.

Rain

"You and me
that's not gonna be
a good idea." you said and smiled.

I left the room and it started to rain
the street that I'm on is a street paved with pain.

And you feel the rain
burning holes in your clothes,
your skin, your flesh, your bones,
your heart
until everything you once were
is scattered on the path
you once walked
to find home.