it moves through you, rolling down your body until it is that space just below your stomach, deep inside.

you can smell the rain.

if you had more energy you would move to your bedroom, open the window there, and sit in your chair until you fall asleep.

two weekends ago, or maybe less, you don't feel like you can give the right time length if you tried, you showed up at your parents house in the middle of the night.

stepping out of your car you stood still, smelling that honeysuckle on the gate. it came to you, found you in that open space between door and car. it took you by the ribs, squeezed, and made you take notice of it.

honeysuckle. honeysuckle. honeysuckle reminds you of so many beautiful women.

it reminds you of faulkner, faulkner who a teacher, back in high school, made you realize detailed smells.

honeysuckle. it's what smell you think you might miss most about the south.

and they say that smell is the sense most connected to memory.

walking through a shopping mall, a department store, someplace with make up, you can sometimes that sick sweet smell of funeral homes and it makes your step speed up to get away from the memories of your sister, of your grandfather.

the rain falls. you imagine the rain in brazil or deep kentucky where the green is the color of everything, the color of the grass just outside, the color the air around you takes just hours before the rain.

in the dark you feel her hands on your body. you feel her teeth on your neck. how does in rain in brazil? would i stand at the window, looking out at a strange backyard, smelling and feeling the breeze.

how do you tell her that you move to either find your way away from her or your way to her?

how do you say please be with me in the mild night?

you want it to storm. you want to leave your room the next day to the sun and the birds and the fallen limbs scattering their way across the grass.

you want to say i love you. but you don't know who to.