‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾‾ The night is wet when she steps into its arms, soaked and sodden from a frozen, pent-up season; she watches rain dance on the black tarmac, looks for her reflection but sees only ghosts. Hands in her pockets, hair streaming water from her collar of her shirt and her skin, she looks up to the sky. Starless nights. Long stretches on broken couches with a guitar. Brown envelopes on desks, old love songs on the radio, rhythm on roof.
People kiss in books and memories that never happened, on cinema screens, on the corners of streets. She leans her head on the door, while the streetlamps flicker, and turns down her walkman, listening to the secrets of the storm. Nothing yields. There is just a sky too open to love, a street a road too silent to follow. The sky blurs into a mass of light.
She leaves lonely handprints on windows, tries to be useful, makes conversation, draws unseen stars in the corners of her papers. In six thousand years, tonight will be invisible. Maybe she already is.