I’ve Never Carried an Umbrella
When they ask me: Where you are, Or if I have you, Or if I’ve met you, Or if I ever think you’re out there.
I always just say: I’ll find you; Not yet; I might have - maybe not; Yes - of course.
When I ask Myself what to do in your absence, I find my molars Wrapped in webbing; The tidal belief ebbing.
My tongue, stripped to its core, No longer has the muscle to Lift any words up to Answer, much less to Pry these welded wires Away from my Clenched jaw.
I decided to take The rain As my lover. Since moving, I’ve seen much more of Her; the humidity Swearing the brevity of Distance; a kiss Abutting the sweat to my skin.
She takes me, wholly; Without consternation, Nor condition, Nor consideration, Nor damnation for My numerous regrets.
I lift my head, And she bathes me.
And yes, she leaves. Yes, often for Extended periods. But the Petrichor left in her Wake finds me Precipitating my grief into a Downpour of belief; myself Awash in relief for, what is Often the first time Since she left.
My senses abandoned, I stand in her gracious Incremental love; Intermittently interned In-‘tween my Hope and my Salvation.
You see, I’ve danced this Dance before; The waiting. And I’m familiar All the more With leaving.
Rather being left; Finding myself bereft A love - that heft Pushing outward from me - Reminding me why I am alive.
So, In the meantime, I wait For her.
And, Only sometimes, I wait For you.
