when it rains

i think about you

and us and ficuses,

how they can only drink

so much water

before they sputter.

noon on some sunday.

you wrapped around me,

bow-ish, like a pret

cinnamon roll.

everyone warns you

of the rain in london,

but no one ever mentions

its lulls of sun.

you’d come to my room

with mochas for hands.

when it rains, it doesn’t pour

like it used to.

i don’t miss you anymore.

we drank each other up,

took what we needed,

made for an ethereal story.

now, i want a love

that wags its tail

each morning,

that will follow me

from here to home.