You’re wet
and the irrevocable language of rain
breathes on your skin–
my eyes catch yours, rolling over,
like you did
when the fog of sex
no longer hid them after we fucked
(and before you left)
that your hair was ruined
We walk empty streets,
and you tell me how you always preferred
the smell of bleach
to the scent of my aftershave,
and that perfect feeling
of you holding my hand
in this drizzle,
when I know
it is just a convenient way
for you to avoid holding
the umbrella.

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