Humidity

Standard

It’s this time of year
             When my allergies
                          Are at their worst –

But I am nevertheless
                                Quite interested
                In the humidity.

                         Nobody ever
      Writes poems
                About humidity.

Which, I think, is quite sad.
              ‘It ends here’
                       I say to myself and resolve
       To compose a few verses
                                              About humidity.

But after this cigarette.

I don’t notice the smoke
                           So much against
                           The overcast sky.
           But I do like the way
        That the sun sometimes
Peers through the thickening gray
                                                 Like a longing.

It reminds me of you.

                            I wonder if you’re like me,
             Thinking about things
                          That nobody ever
         Writes poems for.
                                         Things like humidity.

The number of poems about Love
                        Is continually climbing
     And I swear
                                     Right there
        That I’ll not contribute
                           To that staggering figure.
              Instead
I’ll write poems for the humidity.

The way you feel
                        When you lay
On top of me sometimes
             Reminds me of humidity.
  The way it sort of throws
                                 Itself around you
            All at once
                               And how it feels
           So overwhelming at first.
                                     Then it just feels.
        Like your every molecule
                                                  Fusing
            With the air’s every molecule.
                     It just feels.

And there isn’t any other way
                  That you would rather feel –

                    How terribly upoetic of me.
   It wouldn’t matter
                     If I told you that
                                 This was to be spoken –

                     Why is it
 That nobody ever
                       Writes poems
                                                   About humidity?

 

-r. miller

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