Thirty-Three

believing twice in conviction
with a knack for innocence,
she came in like the rain in
summer; hitting hard, lingering
softly. she was still decadence
dropping from the heavens in
echoes, washing away blue
light memories from the moon.
she cleared away all wreckage
in one gentle fall, including me,
without a change in season or
a promise left to break – only an
ounce of hope past the silence
left glaring off the puddles,
which is why I still take to the
window, every time it rains.

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