After She Left

Fourth, and last, in a series

He found ways of mentioning her name to strangers.

As if somehow this undid things.

The colors she’d worn the night they met still crept in at the corner of his vision,

turning the sky a hazy shade of gold and red.

He’d shake his head, dazzled, to clear it - only to find the color spreading

Like how something spilled soaks into cracks.

 

He saw her just the once, dancing.

After he’d seen the ship at the harbor,

he’d walked in and heard the music and her laughter

and seen their uniforms out of the corner of his eye

He knew she was lost to him, for good.

 

He’d left then and stopped for a quart of something

that would hurt him enough to hurt him less.

 

He avoided places now, pointlessly.

She was long gone.