Petrichor Rain slicked his hair to the back of his shirt, and Remy thought absently that the pattering precipitation felt like insects burrowing through his scalp. This was vicious, spiteful rain, the kind that lashed rather than fell, and it dappled the pitifully barren cemetery grounds with a sound like a thousand dead birds falling.
Fuck that. How would he know what a thousand dead birds falling would sound like? That was exactly the sort of thing Rhett would mock him for—waxing poetical around Rhett was akin to pissing on a bible, or it would have been if Rhett hadn’t found blasphemy hilarious. No, the rain according to Remy’s blond idiot of a best friend sounded like angels peeing. There was no beauty in the world that could not be tarnished by a metalhead with a fifth-grader’s grasp of humor. But in spite of his lingering sense of his friend’s disapproval, the rain was something Remy allowed himself to enjo
StaringThe forests of youth
spin past your torpid recollection
how you glimpsed the wolf
on his crimson embankment, staring
through the dank
recesses of you
smothered in the cosseting arms of youth,
wandered the dank
forests and found him staring through tomes of recollection.
In your haven you found him staring
and remembered: never trust a wolf.
Surrounded in the dank
history-redolent caverns of the wolf
this was no recollection:
bearing stripes like a tigress but without the strength, you
became a broken thing, sacrificed youth
on the alter of the beast’s molten staring
Receding into the personal darkness of youth,
forcing away fond winter embraces with your wolf,
your eyes reinvent the potency of his staring
through your sanctum, dank
with the scent of blood when he left you.
You know he’s staring
yet, tempting you to the dank
forests of youth;
will you permit yourself to follow your wolf?
Stricken by selfish affright, you