Hanging loose, half-possessed
Hair hanging down across the shoulder of your mind.

Her feet scuffing up the sun-dried dirt
Her converse, making little clouds of dust

"I think it's supposed to rain tomorrow"
And you felt it,
Her body as a phantom limb of yours
But you don't remember hers
She's a tracer
Never anything more
And every time
But wait what does that make you

...

The sun blasts its yellow promise through the evening trees
Green and gold
The sleeves of her hoodie
How can I feel her gripping them?
It's too warm for it now
But soon it will be colder.

The hoodie is black,
Or purple

It's definitely supposed to rain tomorrow.