I hate the sound of pitapatting pain...

  What is it that I do;
Who am I to you,
    But proof you’re unhappy?
Hell, I’m the same—
  But just within the frame
Of whatever you are to me.
      I chance and withdraw,
You feign and pshaw,
      We seesaw in the rain
  Of wishes rickshawed
Along cobbles pit-stained.
      I hate the sound of
  Pitapatting pain
    In an otherwise supernal storm,
The swirl and night-form
  Of dark adance to thunder;
All’s stiffened by it.
  I don’t wonder
      Where you are,
And you don’t fancy how far
    I’ve been windswept from
      Wisps of you—
  A clue, among sundry,
That askew was any hope
    I had that the badlands
Were worth suffering
      For your odyssey.
    I aim truer now.
I don’t risk a miss.
  My draw is trained
On years of less than this;
      So save your kiss
For what you have,
    What you unwantedly wanted,
  And lay me to my rails,
      To be either held or haunted,
By whatever windfall I’ve earned
      In heartache.
I’ve the lesson largely learned;
  I’ll await the gift ‘fore I take
    Joy on the boy
Who sits lifted-eyes inside me—
      Not for less,
    Not for more,
But for all he’s yearned.

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