this hour

There never was much to begin with, just sorry eyes and an expectant cheek turned up toward the sky.

Eventually the sinking recognition that imploring gestures would never be satisfied overcame all expectations, and I succumbed to heavy lids and walked down a dusty back road back to my dusty apartment.

That's how I came to be where I started, and that's where my boots will always lead.
Or so it seems.

And yet here I am, unemployed, coffeeless, an unwashed face against the window pane, and I know I feel the morning dew on the other side. Though when I brush the skin it remains surprisingly dry.
I take off my boots and carress the leather, wonder how they had the good fortune to attract the moisture when my cheeks were conveniently skipped over.

It doesn't seem fair.
That objects can experience more sensations than the hair on your arms.

But that's why I wake up to the sounds of two and three alarms every morning and turn the blankets aside, securely attach a knitted yellow hat to my head and wrap myself in sleeves.

Now the rain can pour and not feel a hindrance to my comfort.
And I can turn my questioning cheek up to the sky and embrace its sorry answers.