I hate to love Vancouver rain.

It makes everything smell like decay.

It rots dirt fissures into muddy pools,

But it’s consistent.

I watched the clouds tumbling overhead last spring.

The weatherman casted a wall to wall shower for the last two weeks of March,

So, breath suspended, I snuck a glance out my window after fourteen sleeps

To see the gray overcast flit over the inlet, rolling goodbyes, salutations from the sun,

Just like the last prognosis

I trusted, steadying,

Weaning off of heart palpitations, shallow inhales and perspiration in a cold room.

I was healing beside myself in solus

And now I wonder why this love can’t be like Vancouver rain.

You yank forget-me-nots from the Earth by the root

And wait for seeds to manifest somewhere that has wanted water.

Dandelion diatribes for edelweiss embraces.

Their petals bloom and shrivel through a pseudo-season known only to you.

You swear my distance —

A void growing inward and out

— Will mark the last time

You care to harvest this garden.

We came to a head when second guesses began to swallow me whole:

We reached a breaking point when I watched the sun sizzle a field I was convinced I drowned.

I want to trust that this love can make my forget-me-nots as green as Vancouver rain can,

But it’s marred with something toxic.

And we still drink it up,

And we still remember to forget.

A gag forward — I spat out this rainwater for the first time yesterday, tired and sick,

Some motion I promised myself would become a reflex.

You, reader, tending to your crops: do you follow?

I’m sorry that you do, that was my intention; I know you well.

A funny thing about Vancouver rain — soon, it’ll drive me out of this town

For tending to a garden, for showing myself imperfect security.