Storm’s scent informs me that it is time to go.
Drops and drips moisten torn places barely
dried-out,
dampened, 
drenched
from the prior encounter... encounters.

Pressures graduate from drizzle to downpour.
In its midst, I wait for the 
you in me to 
un-claim, 
unbind
from the right now exchange... exchanges.

Forces subside to a recurrent rhythm. 
Your omnipresence is a whet 
unchallenged 
therefore 
unchanged
flavored like no other past or future.

Brightness then bass reveals a certain image.
It is yours, and 
my soul 
forever wrestles 
with denial -
The taste of your petrichor eternally stained.