I will admit that the rain distracts me.
I burn until I peel, offering my skin to the sun, asking that she let the tomatoes ripen on the vine before she splits them in the heat.
Mourning I went out into the mud and rain to watch stalled horses, nervous and full of heat, neigh and kick at thunder until the storm passed, and the ghost was given.
Too awful a day
Sometimes I pretend there was moonlight, ample. That your body was lit bright. That my eyes closed with no other choice. On other nights, I remember that it was dark. That there were no streetlights. That the stars, smothered by the clouds, could not see us, and all we had was touch.
There is a sound I can’t identify, past the fall of waves beyond the muttering wind.
That’s all there is to it.