Sunset

We rose from bed, took twelve steps,

and gazed at auburn skies bleeding.  

I took you to the balcony to get away

from the room. Some air, I said.

You couldn’t do more than nod.

Our breaths met the afternoon breeze.

It felt like the final days of summer

long ago, whenever a friend’s mother

sent me away at what time

I did not want

to go home.  

How that left a heavy feeling in my throat;

stones lodged too deep to heave.

The only way to displace the weight

was to let it flow. Later, they became tears—

a child sees endings this way.

That day was no different. Coming outside,

you let go of my hand, stood near the ledge

and caught a glimpse of the low sun.

I watched from behind. Waiting for dusk,

we did not say a word.

No sunset is the same as the last.

Years later, I stopped the flow.

Most of us don’t cry

as often as we used to.

Where there are no pleasant departures

some are more distinct, like the color

of nightfall as I watched you

prepare for everything after, setting it

apart from the others I’ve seen

and have yet to see.