[November Rain, Jannabi]

So much was magic then, silent
Autumn, coffee childhood, our tent tarp
was soaked in it: that first break

of sweat, my finger, which you grabbed
to point at constellations.
We kissed antiquity at eighteen, mourning

that the stars have far fallen, far
faded, yet we are here
whispering our solemn promise: yes —

this is magic. This tent filled with fervor,
with blue light, and hands
running from the guilt. Quick,

you say, Pray, you say,
I cannot keep you if we are not
a miracle. I looked at you then, knowing

that the skies have forgotten, and so have we.
We were covered with sweat, and still growing
disjointed because we could be shaken

by the rain. You, my mad Autumn, my
Red Bull childhood — in November's rain, we bloomed
like puddles of hysteria, stomping

rubber rain boots to rage in.