Rainclouds are capricious

This is the last love song, I swear
watching your slow demise 
on someone else’s television.
 
Ice cubes popping
make a watery song
soothing and deadly
on an invisible wound.
 
I can smell it from here
the rising heat
peat smoke phenols
and fruity esters
have done their work
 
every catchment flows into you
every minute something new is lost
your body dissolves into the space
that contains you.
 
Your cup full
while the inland river empties
flow patterns in mud reveal salt
translucent crystals, white against the cheek.
 
I’ve been believing against evidence
eyes misted by my own groundwater
after all the science
lab-coated reason still gives way to
sentiment.
 
No conversation outdrums
the tin roof patter
but the sea is still warm.
 
Not the kind of warmth
that slides down the throat
numb, forget, deny
giant kelp dies
at the edges of your dreams.
 
Where am I, who am I
to break that spell
just one more hominid
sick with desire and fear.
 
There is no other time.
 
The clock no longer ticks
 
the water that wets your face
is the only ocean left.