thursday.

a steel ladder in the rain —

you, eating chowder by the kitchen window, saying,

i'll take the kids out when the rain lets up.

and i slip my arms around your waist,

kissing the back of your neck

between your collar and your hairline.

i liked you better without your clothes on.

the rain beats out a sonnet

on the glass panes, on the clapboard roof,

and you turn in my arms, you smile at me.

footsteps in the stairwell —

i have eyes in the back of my head,

but no voice. no voice to stem the silence.

you say,

is it time now? is it time yet, love?

and i don't know what you're asking.

should i be waiting?

the soft rain wears down the edges

of this photo frame, this moment in time;

your voice fills in the colours;

my hands hold the rest together.

a grandfather clock in the hall chimes six,

and you say,

you weren't ready.

you must have changed your  mind.

a sudden flash of fear —

lightning on the heels of thunder —

the reproach in your eyes as my hand slips

out of your sweater.

then your hair is damp with rain,

and your lashes, your cheeks, your lips;

there are no footsteps in the stairwell.

there is no sound when i speak.

but you say it, everything i didn't:

did you feel the time? did you feel it changing?

the past has gone away with you,

and it's different now.

it will never stop raining.