After years of rain, the gray hangs in the air,
lingers on the skin.
Everyone likes when the grass seems green.
A slow swirl overtakes the blades,
creeps up the ankles.
The ins and outs of parking lots distracts.
In an old window, I catch a glimpse.
Then you fade.
Water continues to rise,
climbs the thighs, the chest.
I run to save the lovely breath.
One cannot run underwater.