That Evening Rain

That night you stole nail polish from the back of my mind,

Rain sucked us in

like a gigantic whirlpool of not-being

and we weaved.

 

Dust landmarked the root of your brows.

Some fourth-dimension force, a thread

to whose gravitation we are defenceless.

We danced to a song of nineteen eighty four.

 

Nutrition facts plastered your Instagram page full.

We drew circles around the edges of time

lest children should fall, playing some game

in a big field of rye.

 

August dumped clouds in a bucket of Fall.

You left us

listening to some songs of nineteen-eighty four.

Rain faded but never died.