Three in the morning.

What we love stays
with us, sometimes.
The road slick with rain and
borrowed light. The machine of
the city turned quiet as feathers.

He walks wet with courage,
by turns incandescent
and dark. Two floors above,
a window flares on.
He could look up. He could.

This has always been
our story: the resolution
farther than we can yearn,
still damp from our hands,
fraying into the night.