The weather is the weather on either side of the glass.
She looked like you. Not in any particular way. Her carriage, the tilt of her head, style without flash, hair in need of washing. I watched her mouth as she talked stocks into some freakishly small cellular telephone. It wasn’t yours.
I had to hold my chest, my fingers pressing this way and that, reaching for the part that hurt.
There is physical discomfort in missing you, which I needn’t point out rhymes with kissing you.
Then the rains came.
