For the Storm

A blue rain
washes into the world.
Not your favorite color,
much quieter than that.

I have furious eyelashes that would
kill to brush you off.

Lately things have been clinging
to my skin.
Ink doesn't clean away.
Dirt turns purple then bruises.

I have arms that fall around you,
a flame searching for something to burn.

You introduced me,
the "girl with halos above her."
A subtle jab at those church going hours
when we would find a bed.
I couldn't touch you.
I couldn't sleep.

I have the mouth of the ocean
trying to say your name.

Because blue is the city when day seeps
behind the brick, breaks before night.
And the electric lights that dot the
skyline struggle to keep the day alive,
preparing you and I.

Our bodies always waiting for some sign of rain,
some sort of religion for the storm.

Photo: Adam Ward