I go to drink the vending machine lights. I insert the coins I was fiddling with. I like how the machine lights up. I like shaking hands with paper cups. Warm as newborn quails. I like engraving teeth marks on the rim. I leave the cup on a chair. It becomes trash, becomes a letter.
I like how raindrops call out to me tenaciously on stormy nights. I like how they call my name twice. My name which is hard to pronounce. I cast off clothes to pretend I don’t know my own name. I like pulling those clothes over my head. I like my body thawing in the downpour. Assailed by that downpour. I like how demons and angels below the Catholic steeple corrode in equal measure.
Raindrops will collect in the paper cup letter. The drops will gather and engrave a cloud. The abundant spring-green hands of a sycamore tree will flutter. This is how it gestures both farewell and fare well. This is how I leave while I stay.