I sat across from him
a decrepit old man breathing
into lungs of sawdust and glass.
I slowly slide over some tea
his hand shakes as he reaches for it ,
How did you do it? – I asked
“Well it may get dark
and there may be pain
but air tastes sweetest
right before the rain”
His face had these lines
these deep trenches. Like each
memory, was dragged across his face.
But the sea of lines
parted when he smiled.
“don’t you dare give in
these times won’t stay
my boy this sky,
will shortly rain”
His papery hand reached out
to grab my hand.
He squeezed with all his might.
I stood from my chair,
I kissed his forehead,
then got up to leave.
I got rain on the spine of her book
part of me thinks she’d like that
she’d find it fitting
it’d match the rainfall of her world
the storm of her soul
so deeply felt,
so beautifully expressed.
I looked up what she looked like
an old photo with these full pursed lips
like she could barely contain the words
locked behind her teeth –
she looked thoughtful
like her mind had the same pauses,
the same punctuation as her writing.
I wondered if she felt like me
frustrated her words only decorated
the fragility of her own papers –
her whole life only five published works
out of her 1775 masterpieces
her 1775 genuine expressions of humanity.
I wrote her a love note
folded into a square
and watched the rain in the street,
carry it into the sewer.