it was raining that night
when we sat down at the
patio surrounding
the well - lit
building that I used to
love and hate

we were there
and it's almost
impossible
to hear you breathe
as the raindrops fall audibly
on the roof.

"what am I to you?"

was the thing I had never
imagined asking

and I could almost feel
the churning
in the pit of  my stomach
and the upwelling
feeling of regret

if I would ever, ever
like your response

and there, I realized
in a chain of thought that

asking you of what
I perceived me to be

is a
dead-end risk
and the moment
I doubted
'what we are'
I knew
that
things are never going
to be the same
anymore

I tried to focus on the rain
waiting for your answer
and you muttered
'I don't know'

we drown, together
in the silence
and I can hear us
detaching.