heart’s monsoon
won’t you walk home in the rain with me, darling?

melancholic heaven’s deluge leaves
a hollow space somewhere near
what used to be a tattoo
murmuring steady rhythms
near my ribcage.
my jeans are soaked
three shades darker than the stone-blue
they once were
(friends, not-lovers, not-unfriends)
—but that’s not what matters, is it?

i took my glasses off,
because with them on, i couldn’t see
(dark eyes, scrawl of black black ink
on history notes paper, sunny i’ll see you there)
anything past the molasses-dripping
sliding water drops,
fat and heavy on the frame;
there was nothing to see,
anyways.

books tucked tightly
against my just-damp sweater,
i squint, half-seeing
the tinted-window SUVs that meander past,
mocking me
(did you really think he’d come)
with their completeness.
does one of those windows
hold the gateway to you?

i can’t be bothered
with all these petty power struggles
between your pride and my heart.