He reminds me of rain,
and paintings of bones-
He talks like smoke,
slackjawed and silent.
His eyes are gray,
like ponds frozen over by ice- or-
the sky right before a thunderstorm in summer,
after thunder but
before lightning.

He reminds me of pine
and sun and river water-
I want to tell him that
it's okay to talk like smoke,
slackjawed and silent-
It's okay that no one will ever understand
how your favorite paintings are of jawbones and
your favorite part of summer is that
gray-and-yellow moment
after thunder but
before lightning.