He arrives like a rumor that I almost stopped believing.

Salty sweat drips from his brow.

Mischief in the fine lines when he smiles.

I had already folded the night.

A small square, manageable, mine.

The soft ache of almost,

The gut punch of never will be.

I open the door like a confession,

My soul is pouring out

into the misty February night.

There he stands.

Like a statue.

A savior.

A symbol.

We shared a Coke, a bed, a lie.

The taste on my tongue,

the fire in my spine.

Opposite edges of something unnamed,

lingering questions

of who we’re trying to forget.

The sky was pastel when we parted ways,

onyx when we parted lips.