When She Had You

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.

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