It’s raining outside, torrential rain that would be beautiful on a summer day, but today it is just bleak. It has been raining since early yesterday morning and the sky’s gray color feels heavy and the rain makes the air thick, like breathing warm smoke. The turn of the seasons from winter to spring gives me hope, but my skin still aches for hot sun and dry air, and the loud buzzing of insects fading in and out.

The silence

washes over us

in this way that’s

sort of devastating.

Like the shoreline

in April your eyes

are ice-edged and

this chill you can’t see

seeps through somewhere.

Some pregnant sky

broke loose that night

with all those words

you’re wishing now

you never spoke,

and one cigarette later

my tail lights were

bleeding your face red.

The rain pounded out letters

onto my windshield

and you said, “you were never

good enough for me


And the silence then

was thick enough

to hear your heart breaking

there inside your ribs.

You learned then that

no love poem you could write

was any match

for self-destruction.


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