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.