I said I wouldn’t talk about him again, 
but there he was — third stop past the gas station,
in the window of the bakery 
that used to sell those fig things I loved, 
the ones that always stuck to my teeth. 
He never liked sweets. Said they were dishonest. 
Like flattery. Or rainbows. 

The sky was doing that thing 
where it looks like it might mean something. 
You know, wide, gold, stupid. 
And I was thinking about wax, 
and how everyone blames the sun 
but maybe it was the wings, 
maybe they were never made right to begin with. 
Maybe he wanted to fall. 

Maybe it’s not even about falling. 
Maybe it’s about the flight no one saw — 
the part before the plummet, 
where everything is just wind and pretending. 
Like when he used to laugh mid-argument, 
and I’d forget what I was mad about, 
because some things shimmer 
even when they’re breaking. 

Earlier, I walked past a hedge that smelled like him. 
Don’t ask me why — it’s not like he wore flowers. 
But the scent knocked something loose, 
and for a second, I was seventeen again 
cruel with hope. 
It passed. It always does. 
But I stood there too long, 
like maybe time would open. 

There was this crow on the sidewalk 
pulling apart a sandwich wrapper, 
and I thought, well, there’s an omen, 
but for what, exactly? 
For wanting too much? 
For looking back? 

And I didn’t see him, not really, 
not in any verifiable way. 
Just in the shape of a man 
holding a brown paper bag 
like it had a heart in it. 
Or a peach. 
Something tender, easily ruined. 

I thought if I looked long enough, 
the bag would bleed, or burst, or speak. 
That he’d turn and say my name 
like it was still his. 
But the light changed, 
and he crossed the street 
like nothing had ever been mine. 

The truth is I still see him everywhere 
I’m not supposed to be.