Seven
At least the rain is consistent
wet
she's always wet
a deluge of romantic vignettes
pouring a soothing salve
upon a burning soul
for a fleeting moment we both feel whole
steam rising off the petrichor
two hands slipping/sliding
into one another
we run,
but not away,
seeking shelter from the storms
seven minutes in heaven
she counted in her head
we were tired
but not done
retired to the bed
where life had bled
so hearts could live
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