She’s like bad weather
who doesn’t care where she is
it’s just a matter of when she’s willing to
flood her feet with tears from her head
the nervous understanding that
her feet couldn’t keep up with
or carry herself between all her thoughts.
I watch her write in her journal
every and anywhere
her mouth opens a little bit
like she’s using life as fuel
while her head tilts and turns
following her cursive
She’s writing me a love poem
she’s writing all the things she doesn’t have the language for
and we’ll share these poems later
after the rains stop
and the smell of petrichor
is rich in the wind.
