holy water, smoke and mirrors

it must be this rain- it hasn’t stopped
for days, it’s this steady unyielding solid wet hand
on the back of my neck. it must be the restless rhythm

it pounds on the roof,
a marching cadence that settles in the soles of my feet and
incites them to move, to run,
and they brought me here,
 following the pull in my gut,
but here
is the last place i should be.

"use it,
or lose it,"
she says,
reaching out and bringing my hand to rest
on her thigh, the denim rough
and underneath i can feel every muscle tense under the
weight of my fingertips.
my eyes are fixed on that smooth skin
just below her ear, the movement of the muscles there
when she swallows.

she lets that grin creep
onto her lips, slow as ever,
and i nearly jump at the sound
of the pigeons scrabbling at the window.
"sugar,"
she says,
and when i turn to look,
she pulls me in.

the pigeons sit at the window,
watching,
and the ever-steady rain taps out
morse code
that echoes down the drainpipe
and sounds a little
like guilt.