There’s not really an easy way out of here.
The summer rain turns the street to dust,
flooding the stones, my feet sinking into
mist. I want to go home, ache for it, but
I can only long for things I don’t have.
Because I don’t know where to start looking
for them. For you, somewhere between
where the clouds rest and where the
sunrise digs its heels into the horizon
or where the earth doesn’t quite want to let go.
And it hasn’t even been a week but
I want to hear your voice again so badly.
I hold on to your quietness in my throat.
Your echoes in my teeth. In my cupped hands
a handful of broken syllables,
wind-worn, to be whispered into your ears.
I still have so much to say.