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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.


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Remember: You

By Libby Smith

When you start to feel like things

should have been better this year

remember the time you held that boy

to your heart

while he told you about his fears

and you and him—you cried honey

and the peaches sang.

When you start to struggle with

catching your thoughts

and become afraid of feeling the rain

remember the time you held hands with your best friend

and danced through a sea of rainbow flags.

When you start to feel like you are falling

into the heaviness inside your chest

remember the way you floated

throughout your childhood

when you sipped tea underwater

with your sister in your swimming pool.

When you can’t help but fear growing older

remember the way you stood shirtless

under a skylight under the moon

and you loved every part of yourself

letting the air kiss you

you, your self—home.