The Friend

It’s raining in New York. Your back against concrete and my face in your sweater. You're holding me for “warmth.” Your fingers move down my spine quietly, like you don’t want me to notice. Your fingers are like your face are like your name are like your place in my mind, quiet. I won’t notice you’re there until you’ve left, won't notice you love me until you stop.

Photo By: Kelly Balch