The clouds crumble like unfinished pottery

The kind of grey that sticks between the creases in our palms. 

The kind of grey that twirls like bicycle wheels.

Maybe the raindrops are your wires

and the wind your gears,

and maybe I will balance on the handlebars with you

until we are ready to ride. 

Our building stands stoic from the outside,

as it watches me close the gate with my sleeve.

You love the way the bricks are unpainted,

natural and rough like the world.

I tell you I mostly agree.

Fog greets us like a distant relative, 

rubbing cold, textured cheeks on our foreheads

kissing our hands until dew snags our fingernails. 

You reach to hug me –

but I’m busy with the worms 

and I don’t notice.

Members of the mist are late to their gathering,

trapping us in impatient tension. 

Our voices sit awkwardly in the clenched clouds

waiting to be released. 

I reach to hug you –

but you’re busy with the phone

and you don’t notice.

Suddenly drizzle is tangled in your stormy curls,

the curls you spun as a gift for my genetics.

The downpour invites your vocal chords to leak affection

and you accept.

We trickle down the soaked sidewalk squares

Crafting our own thunder with our lowest octave,

Throats rumbling, laughter like lightning. 

My hair drips blue on the nose you gave me,

water bruising our pupils

as we hold eye contact with the breeze.

We are the handlebars, and the wheels

propelled by the tongue of the storm. 

Our bare arms mimic the glowing moon

as we extend them so wide our tendons ache

and we welcome every droplet. 

You offer your small grin, the corners of your mouth 

pulled by the strings of my happiness.

I wrap the scarf of dimming sky around my torso,

and I reach to hug you. 

You aren’t busy. Neither am I.