Everyone’s blaming humidity—
    that thick, restless air
    wrapped tight around the city.

But I know better.

It’s not barometric,
     this tension I wear like a second skin,
     It’s not the weight of the clouds…

     They don’t do the things you do to me.

It’s Mari-metric:
     the pressure of your name,
         quiet ache in the air,
         slow, sweet suffocation
         of almost,
            almost,
            almost there.