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.