Rain

He was sitting on the wall at the top of the hill.
It's strange to see yourself from the outside.
I touched the purple bruises under his eyes,
and his blue lips.
I looked down at my legs
And the rain was pouring through them.
I stood on the edge of the hill,
A white shadow, to keep him out of the wind
and held his face in my hands
and my hands were made of rain.
His face was an empty street
in an old photograph
I was torn away,
tumbled into the wind.