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Leave the Windows to the Rain

By Libby Smith

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You taught me to listen to the lullabies on the windowpanes.

When we drew moonlight along the hardwood floorboards

you etched rain into your skin. I let the lilies touch my lips.

We were relieved to leave all the windows open to the rain.

When we drew moonlight along the hardwood floorboards

you taught me to shift grey to blue within me. All the love in you.

We sighed when all the windows opened. We reached for 

sweet river stones and kissed them. We tasted their marrow.

 

You taught me to shift grey to blue. Feel for the love in you.

There is a light in you, you drew. Rain etched into skin.

I picked up a sweet river stone. And sucked up its marrow

as we lay on the floorboards. Colors erupted from our skin.

 

There is a light in you, you drew. You etched rain into skin.

You taught me how to spell blue, how to prolong its warmth

as we lay on the floorboards. Colors erupted from our skin.

Naturally, I carved c-l-a-r-i-t-y into the soft honeyed wood.