the mud has involuntarily converted to velvety-soft brown water.
it is streaming like a slow dance down the road in lines. you are far from me and it stings. each ripple that laps up is its own unit, they look very much like tongues making out with the gravel, there's licking and petting and love so obvious it sings. you - you won't be here for a very long time. years even. three men with black umbrellas are crowding around the house discussing something of obvious importance ignoring the tiny rippling phenomenon. out of every street scene anywhere, i'm here and i stand and look after the water like a parent watching their kid on a carousel. i miss you. what i miss out of everything is you. i wonder what you're wearing. i want our hands to do things. and why the matching black umbrellas? why here? "if we don't do it now, we're done for" one man says. the freckles on my face have turned on, bright, like someone hit their light switch on. you are somewhere moving your body and probably that mouth, too, making sounds and breathing in that specific way that you breathe and everything that you are wearing is lucky because it enfolds and sips you, because i'm not made of cloth but one can dream, i think. or that is what they say. everything about you is both wholly familiar and yet still strange, together exhaustively so, at the same exact time, you oxymoron. my cell phone rings. if we don't do it now, we're done for.