When it rains, every inch of air is moving. A drop falls oblong through layers, forcing Space to push down and in — closer to each other Until we’re inhaling liquid and
You sound life you’re drowning. One time I remember you said you were scared shitless Of the sound of your future — the white Humming of hollow expectation
So I asked you what you loved. Back then, there was snow on the streets of South Philadelphia and the air smelled like piss And dried my lungs to paper every time my heart beat.
But I breathed in anyway and it choked me To hear your story — you said somehow We were missing but I’m too scared to go look. You said You do everything because of someone, but I wasn’t listening who.
When he held me last, I cried, and each drop fell oblong and Ebbed a space in my skin until it swelled to a river. He asked me what it meant to love, but the streets had melted And I was already immersed.