rain bruises your summer afternoon sips of breathing on your own.
mud is smeared on your jeans once bought on your lonesome.
"i was going to set a reminder. see? my phone just died."
the duos of mothers and daughters laugh in your face as you stand in line.
discussing rice cooking methods combusts in a high voltage of bottled up bothers, face all sweaty, poured over with pure drops of running to places you've never been and
hiding in spots you've always had when the thunder rumbled loose.
it wasn't just the numbing echoes of rain all day that made them curl up in blankets and die.
detergent floods your mind and brushes against your cheek in your humid little heaven;
if you stare long enough, the washing machine absorbs the ghosts in your eyes along with the mud on your pants.
the puddles of mud on your cobalt blue memory of soft hands that never enclosed yours.
there are puddles of mud effervescing on the daughter she never saw.
all the tears in your sad, sad world stream into your backyard and transform the earth into pools of brown.
the brown of your mother's eyes, the brown of your fifth bar of comfort chocolate, the brown of the trunks in the forest where you hollowed out your soul at night when no one could hear you shift to another dimension.
the gras fades away as the universe pulls it in;
there is no gravity when laying in the rain;
there is no disappointment in the voice that once created your own when clouds descend their kingdoms;
there are no bowls of rice boiling over in the petrichor of the beginning autumn;
there are no mothers forgetting their daughters in puddles of mud.