not heat, but the smell of rain.
not rain, but the press of it,
long after it's stopped falling.
not the petal, but the root,
and not the shoot, but the twig,
like a bridge along the ridges
of muddy swirling water.
not you, but your breath,
and the curve of your lashes.
not you, but the shape of your
loose arms, rising, reaching,
up into not the sky, but the roof.
not a voice, but the sound
of your erasable smile.
not warm, but ice, split mice,
pavement bloody, not nice.
not heat, not rain, just blue.
not you, but always you.