Petrichor (the first rain after a dry spell)
I. Metal arms, spindly malnourished bench-presses carry the parachute above our heads. The wind swallowed everything but water. I am a fish. You are drowning. Fatal. II. Dropping pennies face up on sweaty cobblestone barely missing puddles as we jump across congested streets. Today was a good day, when we ignored the storm and got to play dress up, instead. We are made of water. Replenished by the rain.
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