Long after our last slow day together,
say, a campfire, a walk in the woods,
getting lost and not caring;

a year since the last rain-soaked note
under my wiper blade in the parking lot,
how she’d thought about my offer;

months after we both knew it was over,
since we last kissed or had a talk
long enough to be nuanced,

there comes a second kind of silence
Drizzly and cold, say, at twelve o’clock,
could be today, November tenth.

The phone doesn’t ring, the postman
doesn’t bring the unexpected letter.
I forget to check the box.

The trees have dropped their leaves.
The noon sun barely tops the trees.
I’m not thinking of her either.