Caleb Delos-Santos
You said to remember the rain
was to remind myself I have skin:
a kind of water of my own
that swells, gushes. I promised
to avoid busy roads, to not
sympathize with their cracks:
the ones that, when driving,
seem to fidget, in sound,
seem to throw a fit, as though
the forks in the roads are young
echoes of lost currents, gone rapids.
We kissed goodbye, an echo ago.
Our lips touched like hands
passing back and forth a wine glass.
We touched goodbye. My palms rippled
as I let you go. Less of a release
and more of a push
off into a river, and all its shuffling.
I drifted to the driver’s seat.
Your hand became a wave.
Before the car jerked awake,
I mentioned it was going to rain.
I said I could feel it in my skin.
You said to remember it.
Since I left, the splits in the roads
have not whined. Rain has yet to show.
But the moon is colored sienna.
It unfurls like a second sunset.
And I still sense all our echoes
rolling through waves of my skin.