The wind was never strong enough
to knock her down,
like thunder in a storm
She balanced between the precipice,
the moment before the rain,
when she had you.
The night rolled in with the cold,
crisp and dark, a good bottle of red.
She let the evening take her in its arms
and spin and spin and spin
until she couldn’t remember if she was a star
or the milky way;
either way she knew she wasn’t lonely
anymore—her body drifting and warm,
the smell after it rains. And it wasn’t raining,
just dark and different,
the stars still there, the moon still up.
The same as when she had you.