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The first time I came here, we rode home in the rain.

Under his raincoat,
pressed against his back.
The younger me was still learning
how to want something
without knowing how to keep it close.

The last time,
his fingers threaded through mine.
We spoke about that rain,
that day,
the movie that night.

Today, I’m here again.

Carrying work as an excuse,
though it keeps brushing
against the memory
I pretend not to touch.

Back when us still felt possible.
Back when I thought
we’d grow old
under the same black-and-white blanket.

But now, the ache calls me by name.

I know the shape of this tightness,
how it swells inside my chest.

Only this time,
it doesn’t pierce clean through.
It’s a long, blunt needle
pressing deeper.

Cruel enough to let me feel
every ours that I’ve lost.


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