When it rains, some people run a little
tucking sighs into their collars
my knuckles tap lightly
on the backseat window
shattering a string of clammy
question marks
you said, we met too soon
before we’d learned how to love
and now I’m grinding restless days
sharpening them into matchsticks
waiting for a sunny day
to strike some sparks
the rain, keeps stitching up fissures
while the city slips and slides in puddles
our conversations hang
like wet clothes dripping on the laundry line
awaiting the next sun to dry and turn them into
transparent answers.