You Are Not the Sunrise

You are not the sunrise.
You are the remains
of last nights rain on asphalt.

As much at fault as pitter patter
raindrops dropping skitter skatter
apologies from your dry tongue.

Old weather glints in the sun
and we ask whether what was lost
is worth the cost of holding on
until another lightning round.

But then we are not the sunrise.
We are eyes closed to fate, predictors
of the coming hate sewing
a blanket of night. Sowing chance
in the space between holding tight
and the frozen distance of overdue
escape. I mistook you for the dawn,
but you were the light of a dying star.

You are not the sunrise,
but a grey morning storm warning
of old scars and fraying skies.

February 17, 2024