There is something about crying in the rain that doesn’t seem real. Or rather, it is hyper-real; as if the atmosphere collects in her eyes, then distills, and precipitates down her face.
Lakes form gradually in upturned umbrellas.
dripdripdrip under the sad tree dripdripdrip
dripdripdrip she tastes of cider and rain dripdripdrip
dripdripdrip holding close wet tight dripdripdrip
dripdripdrip never let go don’t leave dripdripdrip
dripdripdrip don’t do this not yet dripdripdrip
We pick them back up.
It rains inside the umbrellas. We are drenched from head to toe. I grab her amber locks and squeeze, as if to wring them out. Mascara runs like a silt deposit over the arc of her cheeks. The rain is salty and cold.
Soon it stops and the weight of late November lifts from our shoulders and souls.
Two umbrellas—one of a square print; the other paisley—spiral and separate, join again, overlap. They move apart: the squares find higher ground; the paisley departs for the lowlands. But they move indeterminately. There is always stopping, spinning, spiraling, and the diligent search for one another under halogen lamps in the distance.
Our umbrellas have leaks.