An ode to the rain ( To Mr. James Dean)

We spoke again last night,
I don't know why I'm here ; doing this again.
I can smell the whiskey that stains your tongue.

The Kush that stains your fingers,
And it brings me all back.
Such good fucking memories.

You tell me you're sorry,
And I don't know what to say.
Because in my mind,
Only in dreams would I finally see this day.

We're much older now ; much more tired
Our conversations filled with cheap wine and weed,
We don't talk, instead we let our bodies speak.

You begin to cry, telling me you're sorry.
I don't know how to answer,
So we sit in silence until it begins to be too much.

There is so much that I'd love to say
But for now, for this day.
I'll save it for the rain.