The rain of your voice,
1AM's my new Love interest—
and all this time you were waiting
by the front door with mud
still on your upper brow.

My Hands part, woven together
by threads of
flesh and
bone;
a net to catch my Breath.

If I dug deep enough I'd probably
find you, between cerebral lobes,
waiting—Sieve-worn, with no clothes
dreaming of Niagara Falls
and her apron of water.

but right now I'll dive between my Sheets and
listen to Tracy Chapman on a Loop of musical notes.

"Where've you been for six months?"
"Around."
"Really?"
"I love to watch the thawing of snow."