It hasn’t stopped pouring since I woke up. I’m traveling through the city in my favourite hoodie. Thinking about you and your delicate wrists. The photos I took of you smiling, always looking away. Wondering what it must be like in your world. Wondering if we’ll ever meet again. Wondering what you meant when you told me it’s hard to be alone when you’re told you’re growing old.
I write this so I won’t have to write about you again.
Perhaps in a simpler world things would have worked out differently, and you would have given me a second thought.
But I have no tears in me.
The sky weeps instead.