I Lost It
I never thought it was wonderful, but you did, and you laughed when I ran out of cursive. One single drop falls from your gutter, a spinning bullet, glassy, the cosmos caught within it, breaking apart on my sleeve, spilling its secrets, mercury water silvering into fabric, taking with it the words I have grasped at.
I run from McCook’s toward your house, over stones, pulling storm with me. Brimming lungs, Jupiter thoughts, unblended Monet, uneclipsed since ’94. It’s like summer ’09, and I’m spinning and lucid, G to D to A minor, breath held.
First time I’ve noticed her cursive anatomy, first time I’ve clapped blood brothers in a handshake. Last time I felt the flicker of Nanny.
But I stay separated from Hades by Nikes, hair behind me, dripping my acid into the moment. Scoffing at storms, remember: no greener green than eleven weeks of sycamore rain.
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