you are the question mark in eyes
on rain chasing behind sunny days.
the way I feel about rain-
bows, if they take place
though they never stay long enough
and can only be measured by minutes
in our entire life. (when we die,
maybe we will sum up all the minutes we have seen them)
you, the sad child, ignite the street with chalk,
light the sidewalk like a match.
to become colored pie in the sky of some sort.