by Glen Martin Fitch
It's not the heat.
It's my humidity.
Some days on every thing
we disagree.
Beneath your stormy lids
sharp glances let off jabs.
I hope a rumbling
of regret will roll. I count.
But when you cry,
I flee in place.
You rain it out
and then you're free.
I envy you.
You'll talk or leave it be.
Yet all feels wet to me.
I brood.
I fret.
It's not the heat.
I'm built to take it.
And I guarantee in love
there will be tension.
I foresee more strife.
And so I compromise.
I sweat.
It's me.
I can't release yet won't forget
My uncried tears.
It's my humidity.
It's not the heat.
Last updated August 23, 2011