I don’t think it can rain hard enough to wash all my sins away.
Siren sounds and rainfall.
Me, some third floor balcony, listening.
“Requiem for dying mothers” playing
over desktop speakers.
The branches by my window want to
separate themselves from their tree.
I don’t want to separate myself from
Me the leaf and you the vine.
Headlights shine over cracked,
Streetlamps glowing yellow.
You are the midnight thunderstorm’s
Collecting into pools of reflective light
that I jump over while crossing the street.
I am the rusted brake drum skidding to
a stop, feet from my neighbor’s porch,
rich in anxiety.
Hold me until morning in your covers.
I’ll keep the window down to listen to
I am the single droplet born in the river
basin. You are the rolling storm yet to