petrichor darling: five letters to the rain

I.

Yellow blossoms like papier-mâché. You collage all over the sidewalk, sticking to the

bottom of old shoes. I walk under the shelter of a purple umbrella imported from El

Salvador. I did the importing. Somehow I manage to avoid you in multiple countries,

petrichor darling.

II.

Each breath I take makes you laugh as I swim in your downpour, completing lap after

lap in the old city pool they keep threatening to tear down. The swim team and I cross

our fingers that lightning and thunder don’t join you. Three’s a crowd anyway. Your

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

clear watermelon seeds mix with the buzz of chlorine. Crown me with droplets, love.

III.

Drowning. My leather shoes are drowning in over six inches of Argentine slosh, your

constant contribution to my first foreign country experience. We have met on streets

with tipsy concrete stones, waiting for buses and subways and my own worn feet. You

curl my hair with fingernail scales, tiptoe across my face and darken my clothing.

Sometimes I wish you would hand wash my laundry, sweetheart.

IV.

Sometimes you can be so vain. Every puddle, crack, and tile cradles you, so many

watery mirrors. In Argentina I would run, jumping into you. You would scatter,

screaming silent curses in a language I couldn’t hear. Every puddle was mine for the

taking, even if you stained shoes and sunbrown legs. Honey, I couldn’t keep myself

away from you.

V.

I walked by a girl today. She sat cross-legged, her eyes closed as you whispered secrets

into her hair, across her cheeks and through her clothing. The intimacy made me want

to look away, you caressing her bun-wound hair, meeting her freckle for freckle. I walk

on, the purple umbrella between us. Petrichor darling, I’m realizing we will never be

more than impulsive lovers.