You peered through your reflection through the dirty glass and prayed for rain. I traced the light on your neck and down your spine onto your back. Now I close my eyes to feel the wind, it drawing lines across my sun-worn skin and see you walk on every breaking wave. And from time to time I wonder if the ocean floor best suits your soul, in deepest trench in bed of mire where a jealous god can hold. You had your hand on my wrist, I had my eyes on the sun, you said, “The futures a mess

A republic coming undone.” You plucked a vine from the branch, I wrote your sins in the dirt, said “It’s all that we have” and threw the first. You’re unsure. Your stoic eyes persist. You’re photos. Your soft art of nothingness