The Floods Are Coming My Love

We can spend a morning
Chasing an apology from the vending machine that
took your drink.
We can trade sighs like currency,
like all this matters.
And maybe it does.
Maybe all these small things,
the way you forgot to lock the door,
the silence after I ask if you’re even listening,
maybe they matter more than we admit.
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Because life is built in the spaces between our smiles.
The arguments and the unfinished paintings of trees and light,
the dishes and your fight or flight.
They shape our days. 
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But the floods are coming my love,
there is still that genocide in Gaza,
and the homeless person is still someone’s kid,
and America has two candidates Both with hollow heads and heavy fist.
We get caught in such small things.
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But the floods are coming, my love.
The rivers are swelling, carrying our arguments downstream.
and none of this - the heaviness we bury in each other’s chests,
the vending machine and the debts,
none of this will float.
But what do I know?
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The rain will swallow the streets as easily as it takes the fields,
and in the end,
we are all swept away. 
This might sound bad But maybe this is good.
Maybe they do matter and they probably float.
The unfinished painting of light and trees,
the girl in Gaza and the man on the streets.
From when your smile started to when it ended,
life is what lives in between.