100 Words on Love, by Jarad Dewing
Tattered sneakers holding tired feet absorb midnight puddles, black water on old bricks, past dark gardens to your chainlink fence.
Damp miles cannot slow me, the smell of rain like the scent of that space where your collarbones morph into soft slopes, the upside-down stars reflecting in rivulets are the sheen on your skin when my mouth is the sole thing you wear.
I tell myself dripping branches are your fingertips and the soaked earth is your secret, you encompass me with the wet stillness of a sleeping city as my steps draw me closer to the coming storm.
More love, in 100 Words.
More love, also by Jarad Dewing.