floridian

the storm sounds different in every room -

we have these little truths, things

i remind myself of when your heart

slips its way back into my teeth, oh,

you were bred for returning.

you know home like no other.

no, i'll breathe in my perhaps,

and wrap myself in those cable knit sweaters

that hide my form

the storm speaks different when

i lift the wooden blinds,

bathing my room in the gray morning light,

and i lie on a bed that in the coming

months will no longer be mine.

i wonder if you could feel just the way

that i do, in the early june day, skin

sunburnt for the love

of how water flows oh is there something

about our home that only you see,

or is it just me, peering misty-eyed

into my greening backyard,

thinking of who else could ever know

to hold my heart how the spring

holds the dripping rain.