with rain

rain like braille, says the
girl in my dream, with the honey-colored
hair and a playful sense of irony.
Is that how it feels to you? I ask,
but she frowns at my unnecessary verbiage.
Like liquid smoke signals, I say,
and at this she grins then giggles.
We try saying it together now:
like — liquid — braille,
and we’re both laughing, childishly,
innocently, before the lightning and
the thunder scare her away, and I am left
only with empty hands painted wet with…

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