You were wearing this hat that made you look like a kid.
Your car keys hung round your neck on a child’s lanyard.
It was dark and you stood with one black boot
pointed at the door, telling me that you were going and
don’t worry and you’d be back, later.
It’s raining I said.
No you told me.
It’s only wet.
Please I said.
What you asked.
Drive slow I answered.
Willing myself not to make a big deal
because we had been getting along so well.
You laughed and rolled your brown eyes.
The door slammed and I never got to say,
“I love you,” and the whole night,
I knew it would never be the same again.