Gloomy

Not to be gloomy, but I like smoke in the air.
I like silent cemeteries,
and feeding the bears.
Not to be gloomy, but the rain helps me think.
Thunder and lightning give my lungs a drink.
I love useless time,
the space between lines,
where the world melts away
into clouds and points.
I like getting sick, and popping my joints.
You too ought love
the pressure of a nice packed sinus,
the world of normality rots dead far behind us.