the graveyard where i left a part of me, shed like moth scales

Thunder purrs through the hot, dry Parisian air in anticipation.

Grey cobbles and stained glass and lumps of moss whisper to each other of the rain’s arrival.

Oh, what will I do when she finally falls?

No head-cover amongst the headstones.

I think of your book turning to pulp in my bag

and, in turn, I think of you.