Why is it that I find myself so often comparing you to rain?

As though love is a soft drip drop,

still, steady after five years of falling.

Too much rain turns to flash flood warnings,

like Alice, crying an ocean, then wishing she hadn’t.

Your eyes are breakwater blue;

to breach them would wash me away.

As I try to hold you, your face pools through my hands

too fast to write before soggy paper turn to pulp.

I try to breathe into half-drowned images .

I hold them under water too long

trying to see what they can absorb.

I want them to float like I do, borne up by you.

We are the sea; raindrops have become waves.