attempt at prose

It was raining hard. 

The night like stacked cans sort of faced into him with little words like "soup" or "tuna" or something like "msg free" but he wasn't hungry because of the rain, it was the couplings of lightning and thunder like poetic beasts grunting against his solemn ritual of using the window to hide from the outer world. Strange that the sounds of chaos would cause pangs, hunger and the vice of love like a thieving hand caressing the puff of cheek, the strong set jaw, the candle of dreams he lit for her. 

She wasn't there. Out the window, to his eye. He thinks he can make a room in his heart for her though and she would live in it the same as furniture lives in the dust of a room occupying the wood and the stasis of normality. He thinks she would like this room of gilded butterflies, entreated vows, of slow clocks ticking backward and in between these lurking items on the wall a nice kiss or hug. But he doesn't know that vows aren't for asking but for giving. 

He must not care for her, he knows he wants her though. I would want her too. 

She has pretty eyes, a race track of teeth, columns of eyelashes that go begging to be wished upon, if she landed awkwardly on the curb i would break my hand off and lend it to her standing. She is a white girl, a whirlwind of beauty and she isn't distracted by herself but cares for others, i think, a little too much. Her being white isn't a merit in itself, but she has golden hair and when the sun moves to high five God at His making of her the shored river of light beams into the unkempt strands that lightly mull at her plait, or when i see that she has her hair down and her fringe curls to her eyes i am beset, or bewitched. She has the same face that the moon would have if it were a little more awake.