you can pick up your shoes
between two fingers: a peace sign
and follow me under the awning
where we watch the driveway flood
and we don’t complain when the wind blows
the rain into our faces.
it deserves it. it did so well.
our lungs make room for the rain
and glow like saints:
hidden halos, hollowed hearts.
“Tell me you’ll stay,” I ask,
and I breathe you in,
divine smoke and candle wax,
insomnia and petrichor.