You walk ahead,
your back a sultry *****,
your hands hanging—
fingers splayed,
as if you’d held something too hot
and dropped it too quickly
to the ground.

I watch your shadow flutter
beneath your pretty red skirt—
a natural-born wildflower
in a white and yellow tank top.

The rain hasn’t stopped in days.
Even the air tastes sharp,
bitter as orange peels—
the kind we scraped our teeth against
as children,
zest running down our throats—
sweet, but always with a sting.

We walk like this—
through wetness,
through the morning
your step is careful—
mine, careless.
The sound of us
almost matching,
not quite—but it’s okay,
just like a song that falters
before the first note
but ends
with a bang.

And when we cross the street,
I don’t ask
if the other side
is any better than this one—
if it was ever less than a promise
we made to ourselves,
as the rain softened
the road beneath us.