Wet Stars
I lean against the wall.
The sky is half torn open —
stars threading through broken cloud,
rain falling like it can’t decide
whether to drown the night
or just wash it.
The streetlamps along the sidewalk flicker,
surrendering one bulb at a time.
Below them, the puddles hold
whatever’s left of the sky —
a smear of starlight and headlight,
no longer telling which is which.
Then she arrives.
The rain doesn’t care that she’s coming.
It falls exactly as it would
on an empty street.
Her hand reaches me
before her face does —
a cigarette held loose between two fingers,
nails long, lacquered a green so bright
it cuts through the rain
from half a block away.
She lifts the cigarette,
and for a second
its ember is the one star
on this street
that isn’t drowning —
small, orange, only hers.
I hear her
before I see her shoes —
ankle boots, leather, six centimeters of heel,
striking the wet ground
like small, deliberate clocks.
Her coat is long,
black leather, soaked through,
and it doesn’t shine
so much as exhale —
the smell of rain
caught in old hide,
each step releasing a little more
of the storm she’s already walked through.
She doesn’t slow down.
She walks straight toward me
never breaking stride.
She sits down beside me.
The smell of it pulls
something loose in me —
two months ago, my uncle paid me
not in money
but in a leather coat,
worn soft by someone else’s years,
and I carried it home
like a small fortune.
My brother saw it
before I’d even hung it up.
“Will you give it to me?”
And I did —
the way you hand over
the one warm thing you own
without quite deciding to.
I watched him wear it.
I watched it become his —
like an old door
I keep forgetting is there,
until tonight, when it opened again,
beside her, in the rain.
II
Her fingers find my hand,
slow, like she’s not entirely sure
she’s allowed to.
We don’t talk.
We just look.
Then, without deciding to, she leans in.
Smoke and the chemical
sweetness of her lipstick
reach me before she does,
mixing into something
that isn’t quite a smell anymore.
When the gap between us
runs out of room,
her mouth finds mine,
and I swear the stars hung lower,
trapped between the buildings, blurred by rain,
close enough to mistake for witnesses.
Then it’s over.
We pull apart too fast,
the way you let go
of something hot
before you’ve decided if it burned you.
She goes one way.
I go the other —
walking home under the same wet sky.
III
By morning,
the puddles that held the sky
are dry again —
no trace of the stars
mistaken for witnesses,
no trace of us.
The city had room enough
for the rain.
It never had room
for us against the wall.
——————————————-
When Little Boys Fall in Love
Age 5 — The Sand Kiss
You hated it when someone
kissed your nose.
I buried you deep
in warm sand,
then stole a kiss
beneath the sky.
The waves kept our secret.
Age 6 — First Light
Your nails chewed down
to rosy tips,
sorting bottle caps
with quiet concentration.
You gave me your father’s crown.
I slipped it silently
into my pocket.
Age 7 — The Promise
Beneath sheets stretched
between two chairs,
your breath smelled sweet.
You whispered in the cotton dark:
“Promise our hands will never part.”
Age 8 — First Mercy
Gravel dug deep into my palm.
You kissed the stones away,
the sting turning calm.
Salt and copper on my skin—
your tender lips
made healing begin.
Age 9 — The Communion
You bit the apple,
passed it to me.
I held those tooth marks
like sacred things.
We rode our bikes
at nine each morning,
the air cool,
the streets empty.
When cousins came,
I told them I was busy.
“You might come tomorrow,” you said.
I turned away,
stubborn with pride.
Age 10 — The Fracture
“He throws things
when the bottle’s empty.”
You traced the rusted gate
with careful fingers.
Your voice cracked
like old hinges.
I counted my heartbeats—
sharp, cold—
not knowing yet
what to do
with someone else’s pain.
Age 11 — The Shift
Two knocks: your father.
Three knocks: safe.
But when they cornered me
at school,
you looked away.
I stood there long
after they had gone,
waiting for you to turn back.
You didn’t.
That was the day I learned
that love and courage
are not always
the same thing.
Age 12 — The Breaking
Your mother combed your hair
on Sunday mornings,
pressed you close.
“They say boys like us shouldn’t—”
You stopped.
Looked at the window.
As if the word itself
had weight
you couldn’t carry.
Age 13 — The Aftermath
I passed your house at dawn.
Counted steps since you were gone—
forty-seven to the old front tree
where you used to yawn
beneath the sky.
The moving truck came Thursday morning.
Your mother waved.
My heart broke quietly.
Inside the tree, I found your note—
three words in your handwriting,
the letters uneven,
pressed hard into the paper
like you meant them to last:
I’m sorry. Goodbye.
Coda — Forty Years Later
Sometimes I wake to phantom knocks—
two, then three, then silence.
If I could ride
those streets again,
I’d knock—two, then three—
and wait.
Not to explain.
Not to forgive.
Just to let the boy
behind the door
know that I remember—
every tooth mark,
every promise,
every morning
we chose each other
before the world
taught us not to.
The crown.
The apple.
The rusted cap.
Inside the house,
a boy
holding the door
a second longer
than necessary.