Erin Klee

fragments

of an intended life
whispered to an absent lover

Chapter: “The Front Moves Through”

Outside, the wind turns; it scatters heavy clouds like wedding rice across the sky.

We start to run as we feel the first drops fall; we’re still running as the rain turns to marble hail, still running as lighting rips an old maple to mulch near our racing feet. Water floods the road, thin mud to our calves.

Drenched – shivering – chests aching – as we reach our door and search turbid pockets for keys.

Then: Steaming lemon tea with grated ginger.

Then: Open windows admit the musk of rain.

Then: Bathing quickly, rinsing muddy skin.

Then: By the window, the wind chime screams – violent, on-key.

We fuck more intimately than ever before.