Those first Thursdays you were ringless - we were cloud-shares with starry bearings, lakes of mercury eeling under our skins, small moon-screens in our palms.
And then, on that nervy warm nightwalk when I was about to ask you to coffee, you pricked the air and felt me leaning: Ah... you're married, ten years now.
Flirtations wilt into aches. Yet even now, as you wing away, a streetlight's encore sprays pinked spangles, & storybook trees are shushly budding.
The rain comes and goes. Ribs and thews pull into a heart, even as the evening pulls apart with a bird's telephone step.