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Wet Stars
Rain stitched its breath into the streets,
lamplight pooling in shallow gold.
From far off—
the quick, sharp beat of her heels,
a rhythm like promises breaking,
or maybe like promises kept.
Her shadow came first,
then the curve of her coat,
leather warm from her body’s heat.
The smoke from her lips
carried the bitter tang of clove,
threading through the scent
of rain on broken brick.
"You came," she said,
eyes lit as if from some place inside.
Her fingers grazed my wrist—
light, deliberate—
and I felt the weight of every door
we’d sworn we’d never open again.
Somewhere behind us,
footsteps slowed and faded;
my heartbeat loud enough
to drown out her whispered name,
quiet enough
to hear the danger passing by.
We moved into the curve of the walls,
bricks damp and breathing beside us.
The rain cooled my face,
her breath warmed my neck—
two temperatures caught in one moment.
Our mouths met,
and we became the thing
rain had been trying to write
on every street for hours.
Above us, the clouds shifted;
somewhere, I heard
the city learning to forgive.
Copyright ©
Saeed Koushan
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