The humid air let you
Carve figurines out of the heat.
You always did like to mold,
To form and bend and shape and
Until you were the haze blurring out my windshield,
Trying to wave edges like the summer sun.

Water will ghost-whisper your name, talking
Through the flashes of white from street-lamps and
Through static in my ear from using headphones in the rain.
The fleeting reflection of headlights on wet pavement,
Dances ahead, skirting the branches of trees
And courting the cracks of lawn between bushes.

I read the tapping silhouette of your body beside mine
a Morse transience like
The flashes of red reflectors
“You drive on the wrong side of the interstate.”
You have always carved safe havens out of danger.

So drown your engines down
Down below the water and I will follow you in.
Keep your fists clenched and white
As you pull me under,
and I will follow you in.

When humidity crashes like waves,
You are the space and I am the haven.
I am the space and you are the haven.


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