I always liked the way the rain fell
on your street, gathered up in the
elm trees who were slow to shake it off. 
The air heavy with the fragrance of
manicured palettes of perennials. 
The old skin of the desert is barely
visible except that busted lot behind
the Kmart where the bleed of florescent
light only hits the top of the weeds
and the smoke snaking away from every
cigarette. When I first saw you, it was the
soft pink nail polish reduced to small jagged
patches of color on your bitten nails.
Your pre-renaissance fingers hugging a
40oz chalice. We were trapped and aimless
waiting for time to have shape.  It never did
either of us any good for me to want you. 
The end of summer crept up like a police car,
maps were redrawn, the lines that could no
longer be crossed reappeared, and then
you were gone.

.