soft rain slices skin apart at the seams, watching rain
slide down and pool in my lap. watching you pile things into
duffel bags, watching my hands wring themselves and
pick apart the flower growing in the space where my lungs were.
he loves, he loves, he loves.
petals are put forth in clustered buds of brighter times, bear the dyes of vivid days,
cascade and separate in the fall.
I'm breathing in the spaces between yours; even here
somehow you got away.

this winter I will pull off my coats and notice that you are written
down my arm in ink that doesn't fade like time left,
fails to blister and run like chalk drawings on the pavement,
keeps over seasons, over marigolds, over strangers and coffee,
and he loves me nots.