that month again

And it is March. And there is that tingle again, a sharp, downward push on skin, burrowing into every pore like some massive undoing of sweat. It will return, it will be known, this memory violent in its urgency, the same questions surfacing like a howl heard from the other side of the hill, like bad poems read on lonely nights. February will only be remembered for that shirt suited for another season. Or that text message that appeared on screen in fragment, incomplete, saying, “I think when you’re”

Not a period is in sight, not even the suspense of ellipsis. Perhaps it is best to leave some things that way, misplaced and unsaid, to be spared of what we do not want to see, of what we do not want to hear. And in each morning, around eight or nine, we could always say, “Look, there’s too much blue in the sky. I’m sure it wouldn’t rain.”