And now the rain is starting. It doesn’t have to
mean anything more than the pavement’s gone wet.
If you were a flower you’d be happy right now.
What was that piece of advice that therapist gave?
How intimacy isn’t just naked in bed,
but arguing, struggling too? Well, I’m trying
to foster an intimate relationship with myself.
He—me—has turned our back on this choice
to live without meds. So I’m cozying up to him,
rubbing the tension out of his and my shoulders,
and speaking in my calmest italicized whisper.
Hey, I’m saying, hey—it’s just rain. We’re okay.
Then we lie real quiet, breathing as one.
Maybe tonight, I add, we’ll get us a pizza.
To this, his ears perk up. He likes that. He likes when
I’m paying more attention to him than the noise.
The rain keeps falling. I’m starting to wonder
if this is my own floral origin story:
How it thundered. Then cleared. And I rose.
