the truth in the weather

a brittle-shelled query that can’t be spoken–
i lay down my bucket of ashes, memories i carry
with me everywhere. my heart made of thin smoked
glass is intact, but there are never any guarantees
in the great depth of ambivalence. i hold yellowing
oak leaves in my hands and quake, mimicking a storm
that has yet to pass, and to tell the truth, some-
times i forget why i came here and then when that
happens, i cease to exist for just a moment or two,
right before a hand makes skin-to-skin contact.
these secrets fill up my eyes but i’m too polite
to blink them away, cover my hand with my mouth
(much like that way you used to), to let a trickle
of truth seep out, to tell you that our kind of
love was the kind meant for the fire that burns
me now and leaves behind an oily residue that i
can’t get off the insides of my eyelids. but the
clouds wash me clean again, and in that vaporous
ascent i know that i too will turn to rain again.