Sous la pluie

Look through the rain-laced window

as the road unfurls over the strange

eastern rivulets of cold terrain, or

wander through the bleak angevine

rain, sempiternal mist within

the odd fragment of western valley

a ghost brushing their lips on your skin.

Remember how the absence of tint

and feathered light used to be

a strike to your quivering, solitary heart

floating among the crows and drifts

of silvered curtain. Lift yourself

a bit higher, and you could be

footsteps from her window,

a waver and pause before you raise

your knuckles to heaven’s weeping door,

you could be an arm’s length from her

matted hair entangled by wind and

laced with smoke, fold yourself into

this hour’s perfect canvas and don’t

look down now, you’re just one

blithe revery from home-

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