I watch the hot rain beat down on you like a childhood whipping. Your blossoming black rose tattoo undulates beneath the wet skin of your bare left shoulder, the strap of your tank, fallen like a sexy accident. As you cross the street to meet me, your hair coiled wet, like dark snakes, I lean toward you and savor your faint exhalation of whisky as it rises over the sweet scent of rain. 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 because I walk you home in the rain, without touching you---not once flinching in the summer thunder.