They don’t even know our kind exists

Is that alright?
I reach for your hand as our bodies swirl,
it’s so gray when we try to catch up with the storm;
all is dust, forgettable mist without any mystery.
Can you see them?
We’re little sinners, petty gods of petty misfortunes;
tribes dance while we’re turning, black eyes
and honest smiles. Their feet sing of rain,
stomping on poor fires, feeding on the poorer.
Is that alright?
I reach for our tiny tragedies,
pills so romantic,
and they don’t even have water.

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