If It Rains I Want to Be the Last to Know

and I want you to be the one that tells me.
I want your word on your sincerity,
and I want your eyes looking into mine.
I'd like it if you took my hands
and held them somewhere near our chests -
and say it slow and sure and firm,
baring nothing after left for question.
Tell me all the weight of drops
that pour upon the plastic awnings.
Paint the landscape in my head
with only words you've chosen.
Make such sounds that stir the dead
with the depths to which they travel,
and grant no option past another
that forces me all at your side.
And if there's stars or charcoal skies
I want just you to fetch me too.
Gladly take your hand in mine
and help me to enjoy myself.
Aid me and my fragile vice;
force me to antagonize
the every bit of former me
and his lack of sweet momentum.

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