Some day again it will rain,
Like all that repeats
Because nothing eventually is
Different enough to surprise,
But take for instance this
Pleasant because we know it, and because we know what it does and what it needs.
It won’t be exact in its replication oh no,
And that is what I live for.
For next time, in a car with rain-smoked-bacon-streaked windows,
Breathing in festering leather and relived metal,
The world outside aesthetically blurred, like they say it’s supposed to be in dreams,
But never is in mine,
The water rising back from the street that gave up long before any of us even began-
In spiral whorls such that from inside,
I don’t know if it’s rain fresh from the sky,
Or rain’s own puddle twin, attempting a vain restoration of position.
This next time then,
I won’t be alone,
Feverishly touching
My neck,
My throat
My cheeks
My breasts,
Next time, in the confused darkness lit up by the out-of place innocence of crystal rain drips,
Next time, I will have you.
– Piko

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