An ache—

not pain exactly.

Something
before wanting.

A wish
gathers itself

where there is
no name for it.

You ask
the storm.

Not with words.

Still,
words leave you—

small things
thrown into the storm.

They vanish.

Something answers.

Or does not.

You listen
until listening
becomes its own sound.

There—

almost—

something
without language

touches you.

You reach.

Rain
collects in your palms.

For one second
you mistake

holding

for having.

Then water
finds the spaces
between your fingers.

You close your hands.

Nothing.

Open them—

wet.

And suddenly

the question
you carried
all this way

is gone.

Not answered.

Gone.

The rain keeps falling.

You lift
your hands again.

But it’s not the same

Neither are you