Yard Sale of Thoughts

When you leave,
feathery clouds of chemical
are left behind.
A biological breadcrumb trail
that hopscotches the sky;
what a lovely way to say goodbye.

Nefarious lover
testing out your latest poisons
with a stealthy morning pass
that itches my weekdays
like a cradle cap rash.

My barometer,
influencing my emotions
like weather events.
Psychological warfare
camouflaged as tiny clouds
of connect-the-dot air.

I didn’t ask
for artificial ozone,
miniature cotton balls of exhaust
saturated in last night’s
inhumane humidity.

Take my air temp;
I’m already ambient.
You’re left seeding
barrels of exotic weaponry,
while I’m busy cloudbusting,
crystals pointed skyward,
shadowed in your wake.