The Longest Rain in March

YOU ARE LONG. I don’t care where you came from or how you made it to this day, you’re the most significant abbreviation of living. It’s like clear water, the catch-them-all, the longest rain in March. I can see us sitting at a picnic table someday, in, say, late July, sticking and chipping paint from the wood, enjoying. We’ll be.

I don’t know where we’ll start, but we won’t end. Together we’ll become dehydrated, turn around and lost, sparks shelling from our darnd’est moments. We’ll be night watchers, hitchhikers, safety and danger and later, dancing on the floor in laughter. (It will be beautiful, too.)
I don’t care where you are or how you got there. There’s twelve months a year and I’ve yet to find a time in my mind more fragile or well-spent. I don’t care if you’re like blue or smell stained, I don’t care if you’ve lost or you’re smooth or chipped or taken. We’ve been dehydrated and that’s that—and you cannot take away that thirst.
You, the longest rain in March, fall in sheets, so long
and so slow.

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