I've never lived in a town like this.
I've been walking for days
and I never got past the fact that I'm still here.
It's the same three package stores on the same three roads
for the same three years I've been sixteen.
I've never had to dream like this.
To lay in bed all night and think about her,
if that counts as dreaming.
To hold my breath and hope I'd close my eyes
and even when I do all I see is the summer
that is scribbled out now in red and orange.
I've never seen rain like this before.
The brook is pouring into the street,
making rivers from roads
streams from sidewalks
ponds from puddles
oceans from rivers.
I take a breath before I break the surface
because now that something's broken
I can't breathe.
Repetition from singular until we're all
the same.
But that's how it felt with you.
The house that I grew up in
went down in
flames
and I never took a breath when I hit the river.
I fell asleep and breathed in quietly
as my mouth filled with ash
and my lungs filled with water
in the best way possible.