It smelled like rain when we met
last Tuesday.
Like you already knew
I would break your heart.
And I remember your fingertips
crackling like lightning
across an electrolyte sea.

You said you wanted me
to curl into you.
You wanted me
to need you,
like I had so many seasons before.

Even if I had replied,
it was too late
and the thunder shook all the dying leaves
from my tree home
and the fruit of our labor
from my bark-woven womb.

And we couldn't shield ourselves
from your storm anymore.

I think I drowned that day.