Rust

He is crying on his couch and twenty five hundred miles away my rain boot honesty is rubbing my ankles. Isn't there a threshold to this evening, a breaking point where all the qualms burst into tulips? or hydrangeas? But not carnations, you know that much about me. There are blisters so bear with me and let me put some stretch into the seams. dry your eyes with whatever you can find. He keeps saying, "please, please, let me be your home." But i am nervous of the rain, my dear, and the planes, and the rust left on the chrome.