clouds break before noon,
the wind rushes in and
the two of us sit with
the chill as if
tomorrow plans on
beating around the bush
about showing up.
I hold his hand.
he brushes against
my sun-beaten skin and
tries to steal a moment
with my eyes.
we sit in the glow of
a freshly splattered rain,
sun peeking its head out
while drops fall–Devil’s
beating his wife.
I don’t want to miss
a second of his
green-eyed stare.
I watch the moon as
it hurries in between
sibling clouds, its
intent is clear.
it’s here to stop
our show.
tonight, there will be
no encore.
