another january rain above us,
same month, same city, same conflict,
a different ‘you’ in my poems.

i wonder what you really felt
when you slung my arm over yours,
when you relentlessly chased my hand,
those hard, seasoned fingers on mine.

i try to fight you off, but i wind up
linking our arms in a chain,
rubbing your back until i’m sore,
hearing you ramble in that car ride,
as you asked about my bruises and
searched for my hand before i cut you off,
knowing we cannot be more than this,
at least not now.

that night
when the sky sobbed watching us,
i wished you were drunk every day
and regretted that i was completely sober.