the streets are dripping like a painting in progress; we’re becoming a blur, him and I, but I’m soaked from head to toe and he’s dry. “you don’t know who you are and I can’t tell you that,” he says with the shake of his head. he speaks so carefully, like someone from a book I read.
we stop under an apartment, the balconies shield us from the rain. I grab his hands and hope to never feel this again. he’s slipping away, they’re painting him out and I am without color. I look up and notice that the sky is getting duller.
he’s about to say his last words, his mouth curls, he says, “take care.” and as he walks away he leaves me with an unfamiliar stare. I turn away and reassure myself that he was never there.
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