From across the street, I watch the steaming August rain beat down on you like a childhood whipping. As you cross the glistening pavement to meet me, your hair coiled wet, like dark cobras, I lean in toward you and savor your faint exhalation of whisky as it rises over the candied scent of an indeterminate cologne. Fallen like a sexy accident, the left strap of your tank reveals the tiny whorl of a black rose tattoo blossoming beneath the wet skin of your bared shoulder. Why you love me, I haven't the slightest idea. I prefer to think it's because I am the greatest lover in the world, but I know I flatter myself. It's more likely it's because I walk you home in the torrent, without touching you. Not once flinching at the spikes of summer thunder.