Letter after Walking by Maria

I write to you in haste because the rain is so light and kind and I must get back outside in it. Earlier I carried flowers in the belly of my shirt and I felt like I was holdling you, feeling your petals through the thinness of the cotton. You have let me carry you just like that, just as you have carried me from bedroom to bathroom, kitchen to car. All of this can get to me, and water pours out of my eyes as some sort of anchor. It is alright to cry, it is okay if I go all in this, if only to know what it feels to feel. I will hold it even if you grow inside of me and then beyond me through my fingernails. I opened up my shirt and let the rain fall on you while never letting a petal drop. I wouldn’t waste an ounce this time. With shyness I say I never wasted an ounce, and I know you already see this in me.



I remember the field I picked you from, the kisses I blew without hesitation. I remember the butterfly that floated casually over head as if it didn’t know that I was falling in love with it - as if it didn’t realize that I would have built a city in homage to it if a city is what it wanted, though I know quite well that no butterfly would crave a city. I pulled you from the field and I felt awful about that, really. I wondered if it hurt, and if you could be okay with that - thankful, even. Could it be that the being held in my hand is more than enough and the holding you in my hand can make me satisfied with this gravel that scratches underneath my feet, and this rain that falls on the back of my neck like morning kisses?