because rain always makes me feel like writing a poem. always.

what happened when the storm came on the evening of May 3rd

once the rain told the hood of my car
several of her secrets.

she told them in steady succession
before she lost the courage to say:

some about places she'd seen,
destroyed carnivals, or grayed weddings

with no apology. she spoke
of anger, which she felt guilty for not controlling.

she also said some things about love,
which she never told anyone about,

so she said it extra hushed, tapping
out the secret against the windows

and saying she often took her time rolling down
an elbow,loved that space above the sock and ankle,

loved waltzing puddles of lullabies against a roof
in the warm of a summer night,

and said before she left that she loves what I hate
about myself: that I can listen but I can't talk.


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