not touching it moves. Flowing, circling,
falling. We throw the water up, and then
down. It sinks through us into our skin.
That upward motion, I feel it now.
It propels forward, I lurch with it.
I don’t want to stop, I want to run.
Let the dust never settle.
Tea cups and shopping trollies,
bedsheets and cushions. That pristine
image of the suburban, the quietly
perfect, and amazingly flawed.
Unconnected and inconceivable,
if you wait for the stars they’ll only
burn you, or sit behind your eyes.
We make our own perfection.
If you’re thinking somethings cliche
then it probably is. Kissing in the rain
is funny, we laughed and ran and got
soaked. But we do remember that kiss.
