The window is open
and the rain types syllables and sentences
until they notice.
They are silenced,
characters moving through their arcs
to its constant reminder.
They should step outside
into their story.
The rain is not a wash of love or sadness.
It’s the daily turmoil
they try to avoid
with excuses.
Its downpour or drizzle dictate
not the mood
but the conversation
they need to have.
They walk, the drops falling
like punctuation
on their decisions.
His offer of an umbrella
conceals intentions.
The shelter of trees filters
what she wants to say.
They have to get wet.
The rain touches their shoulders
with a certainty
they should possess.
It caresses their faces
and it’s the first time
they see each other.
They speak of the gutters flooding
and share the word petrichor.
Their eyes open
to their place in each other’s fiction.
When they step back inside,
their hair glistens and glasses fog.
What was written between them
catches on the windows.
Their conclusion puddles
as the sun dries the pavements.
Only the irises drink in
their last words.
