I rediscovered an old sin-stained notebook
containing your name and old phone number
written in the dark, distracted
curl of your cursive.
I was standing outside a café
watching a cirrus cloud in the cerulean sky
float by like foam on a pint of beer
(meanwhile, the absent-minded cigarette smokers outside
watch their fleeting exhalations
coalesce with the clouds),
and thinking about how
the memory of our meeting has ebbed,
it too ascending and merging with the sky.
How you
finally broke
like a storm across the sky of everything.
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