The End Of Summer

We met at the end of summer,
a single month enough
to make me crave him.

Not his body—
for he was never my type—
but himself,
the love I had been waiting for.

At first, I thought him careless,
a waste of air,
yet the more we spoke,
the more I saw—
he saw me too,
and something in me began to ache.

I wanted him as more than a friend,
but the universe is cruel,
and he belonged to another—
to her,
my friend.

On the last day of work
the sky wept with me—
clouds heavy,
wind restless,
rain stitching grief across our shoulders.

We shared an umbrella,
and he lit a cigarette.
I hate that scent—
a reminder of past ghosts—
but with him,
it softened,
became familiar,
became love.

He caught the way I looked at him.
“Do you want a smoke?” he asked.
I said no,
yet he placed the ember in my hand.
I breathed once,
not for the cigarette,
but for the taste of him,
a kiss I could not claim.

Now we meet still,
week by week,
his girlfriend—my friend—always near.
And though my heart aches,
I keep my distance.

For my love is useless,
troublesome,
a fire I must guard in silence.

I love him,
but I love our friendship more,
and I will never risk it—
even if my heart
burns quietly in the dark.

by Onnaya