The first poem
I wrote about you
was months after
the drought hit home,
and nights were spent
dancing for rain to come.
I spilled all that remained
on every cracked space,
in bold capital letters,
font never big enough
to fill the hole in my chest.
"So this is how loss looks like
written in my blood."
The rain finally came
the morning I woke up
with my pillows dry,
like footsteps
of a marching band
celebrating the win of
an endless war.
Sometimes,
your scent still lingers
in words I set free,
but I've learned to
stop biting my tongue
when it comes to your name.
