Fifty-two weeks later,
I pass the crack in the sidewalk
where you asked me,
“Can I hold your hand?”
I look for a sign in the clouds
that it all meant something.
I have resorted to blocking
anyone who entertains tarot cards
or attempts to convince me that
the way you looked at me
meant that you felt it too.
The last night I held you,
I was convinced you were
falling in love with me.
The last night you held me,
I knew I was losing you.
I ask the rain,
“How will I know if he loves me?”
I remember looking at you
for long enough
to know that you never will.