Daybreak cuts in with the sound
of the rain changing shapes and scents,
high forests turning to gorges,
waterfalls chasing the cliffs.
All at once you are hit by the familiar
sound of her calling, far
and fugitive, for you. Survived
by the silence of lightning, it flits, swift,
across the widening chasm
between what you should have said
and what caught in your spine,
cleaving the sky apart.
A rose blooms in your throat,
a dangerous one, breathing heat now
into your late confession,
switching pitch, tone falling gently,
like thighs shifting, trailing like sheets.
Admit you’d say anything
to retract the caress in your voice,
and the songs that were dirges once
in the wake of trysts gone awry,
they sound as if you still have her,
as if you didn’t send her, hair dripping
from the storm, into another’s arms.