Even though it is Sunday, it is grey.

“It is raining, of course,” I say.

You: “Because you are leaving.”

It rains on awful goodbyes,

even before our shared honeyed spoon,

but it poured that day –

I met you anyway – vague downtown.

Swapping spit, we shared a pear,

- close as we could come.

You held my palm through the deluge –

That bright yellow taxi; such contrast to the day.

“Wait,” you told him, “Wait.”

A four-time goodbye – that appropriate grey sky.

Fingers locked, all knuckles, white as alabaster.

I hated the letting go, but I did. You did. We did.

Then me in my yellow and glass box,

you in the rain, perched still on the curb,

a half-smile, you slid me a wink,

Some regret? Something else.

So close. So far. Not quite. An almost.

Closer each goodbye, just not quite enough,

and we kissed as it poured as it poured.

I cried all the way to Penn; later, you said “Why?”

… as if nothing…

But today… today you tell me otherwise…

Conveyance in brief moment, compacted.

So precise in our ways. This time, you do not edit.

You STET the whole thing.