She stands in the shower, lately. Thinks too hard about those times in the rain smoking spotted cigarettes in the late cold grey afternoons with him. Talking against the air like the overflowing ashtray of a used car. She misses the way his right eye used to close involuntarily when the sun sparked them both momentarily through the clouds. The secret ways we move impressions on one another without words. Her nose drips red against the tub floor. Involuntary bleeding. Slides away in splatters. She regrets that they never kissed. Presses her forehead into the cold wall. The back of her hand like a bandage against the openings of the nose and mouth. Wonders if the memories will stop with the blood. The shower is the only safe place to stand. These blood years. He waved from across the street. And she felt the weight of his love in her mouth. Like a rock on the tongue.

she never saw him again.