Once

I drew a stick figure with chalk on a blacktop that shimmered in summer heat; I drew a man and a woman and a dog and a baby. I drew another, farther away, in green with a triangle dress and no eyes. I labeled that one me.

I imagine the rain came and all of those things disappeared like they never existed; like darkness when the sun comes up.

I’m all grown up now and sometimes I stand in the rain and count the drops that land on my lips the way I count the seconds you linger in every kiss.

Sometimes I run my tongue over the swollen remnants of you. I do that now, collecting spare drops. Like they’re the same thing, but they’re not.

So the rain ruins everything and it’s not enough; because even if I collect every piece it’s still not You. Nevertheless, I throw open my windows in the summer and listen to it tap against the sill and I dream of you shutting it and telling me to come back to bed.

I dream of you drowning out the rain.

If I redrew the picture I’d draw a stick-man in purple almost beside me, but not really tangent and I would give him a single smile and two blue eyes. I’d trace it in song lyrics and soft sighs. I’d label it You.

And I’d dare the rain to take you away.