It rained for days.

not a storm,

just steady enough

to fill the cracks in the driveway

and make the air smell

like endings.

 

The ink on your note

bled through the paper,

letters slipping into one another

until you're sorry.’

wasn’t even legible anymore.

 

I thought the sky might help,

that it would take the sharpness

of that night

and smooth it into something

I could walk barefoot across.

 

But the rain stopped,

and the mark your hand left

on the windowsill–

a faint half-circle of dust–

stayed there.

 

The house feels clean,

but the air still holds

the word you didn’t say.