Mine is like the rain,
as it hits panes of glass
with taps and ratamacues.
Filling the world with noise,
drops thin out to coat the façade
of bended light and twisted landscape.

Hers is like gently falling snow,
as whispered from a warm, moist maw
into the cold.
When we speak a lover’s name,
flecks linger in the still air,
even past the time when we speak it
over and again.

They hoard space and hold fast
to the distal points of sticks and stems
and gather in the recesses of window frames.