Jan 25


He's there, on the corner.
The kind of boy who looks
at you like the sun. 

But you belong
to warm winter rain,
the kind that buries people under raincoats
and smells waxy, like summer stars. 
He should know by now,
you told him that night,
when hands smelled like apples
and the sky wouldn't let go of its daylight. 

After a while, he'll remember what it's like to have rain
as only a friend, grow tired 
of damp hair and falling
asleep to thunderstorms.
He'll move to a place
like the Atacama,
where you have to dig
ten feet to find me.