The night moon catches in the spin of my umbrella,
Running light down the ribs,
Dripping off its fingertips and
Vanishing into the slick concrete,
Shimmering with reds and greens
Of passerby and walk-signs
Blurred bags and t-shirts that push past
the pair of shoes frozen on the edge of the curb
The spot there beside me
The reason my hands burn white in grip
Since when?
Did my shoulder no longer feel the drip of rain
Since when?
Had the puddles' glint ceased to hold your face
Since when?
Was there, beside me,
A space