standing at the kitchen sink,
i stare out the window,
marveling at the change of speed
of the downpour—-from a light,
refreshing rain that bounces
& rolls off the deck to a heavy
rush that you can hear
pounding the roof & then
back again—-i have to grip
the rim of the sink to stop
myself from sinking to the floor

the pop culture romance
of kissing in the rain
haunts me—-dreaming
of your lips on my lips,
your wet hand under my
wet clothes, touching my wet
flesh—-how we can be quiet
& i’m at ease, or how your
lack of words sits like the distant
roll of thunder in my stomach

but to be alone in the rain—-
to star in my own melodrama,
crying as the rainstorm
soaks my clothes & i have nothing
to do with my hands, remembering
how i cried driving home
after being with you

sometimes i wish that i
wasn’t so attracted to you,
so i wouldn’t cry in the
rain, so i wouldn’t dream
of kissing in the rain, so i
wouldn’t be reminded of my loneliness
as the rain streaks across the windowpane

there were days we used to talk
about how much we’d love to just
spend a lazy, rainy day together—-
to just cuddle in bed, kiss,
occupy ourselves with mundane things

yet, i know you’re gonna make
a lonely, rain-obsessed poet sterotype
out of me, aren’t you?