WHEN BREADCRUMBS FAIL

The smell of summer rain
means we will never pass
by this place again, friend.

Lightning strikes in the distance.
The pitter-patter
rhythmically beats against
the aluminum window frame
as I press my face against the cool glass,
trying both to stay awake
and to wake up:

the rain will turn, shortly, into snow,
the snow into wind,
and the wind into time escaped,
masked in gentle thunder
amidst a downpour of torrential loss.

 

 

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