It was a cloudy Monday, and the clouds were

puffing up and singing about the oncoming downpour.

They were a little too happy, ‘cause it never rains

on this side of town, across the tracks, across the

tracks of mud in the grass. Tracks of mud in the grass,

so brown and green, fresh and vibrant hues, lost within

the torrent that is you, Camille…Red Camille.

-

I’m looking down at you, and the clouds are

hanging overhead, like eavesdroppers, listening to

the gentle stream of consciousness that you’re singing,

and it makes me think of you, makes me hurt for you,

to know what might’ve have been…but all I know,

all we ever really knew, Camille, is that is never rains.

It never rains on this side of town, it only washes away.

-

No more Red Camille, as the priest read

his blue eulogy, as blue rain fell from blue skies,

and a sort of crimson haze rose from the casket,

as if Red Camille would say,

“I don’t like the rain, it’s too blue for me,

it’s just—just too blue for me.”

-

Without Red Camille, the priest read his

blue eulogy, as blue rain fell from blue skies,

and a crimson haze rose over my eyes.

But…I knew Red Camille was singing,

“I don’t like the rain, it’s too blue for me,

it’s just—just too blue for me…”