It started in the rain and the scent of summer. Grey and grey and grey and lonely asphalt and the dripping of the gutters.
It reminds me of the bird feeder outside of your window, and the little snakes of water on your face as you would tilt it to the sky in search of me. Blinking, blinking, away from me, and blinking, blinking back. More snakes.
This time I found you in your car and I wasn’t surprised to see you with the driver’s door open and one leg out, one leg in. The dull drone of music from your phone in the cup holder and the look on your face that said “hello”.
The rain was hissing against the roof.
The house felt small today and empty as you left it and it sat there unholy and sinking into the backdrop of the overcast and your face, overcast too.
I hung back and you didn’t beckon– you never beckon, anymore. Just staring at me with that “hello” and daring me to say goodbye.
The rain was relentless and I couldn’t hear you if I tried.
You were wearing a flannel that reminded me of autumn. Your forearm peeked out in a reminder of it’s strength across my chest and I could smell you through the rain and, in a way, as always, this was all the beckoning I needed.
I took a step towards you and stood in the open door of your car and you didn’t say hello.
You told me I could keep your shirts and I told you they were mine.
My fingers damp and searching. Someone has opened the door to the house.
Somehow your hands in my hair and your face in my hair and it’s deafening.
Somehow still frozen in place and the snakes they live in the gutters.
I curl around your finger, and you let me. I am wearing your shirt and it is mine and you are mine.
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