the awning caught a bucket of rain

for you, left a dry patch big enough

to stand and watch the streets turn

when rain becomes snow. cat curled 

in bed early, left a warm spot. now 

she’s waiting at the window for you 

to come inside. streetlights try to remember 

names and how to catch flurries. brambles 

fill their arms with the last of dark fruit,

the moon is growing bigger than you 

can hold. a voice calls your name 

from the oven-warmed kitchen,

gifting you the spoon to lick. 

a song plays on the radio, 

just for you to cry, “this is my favorite!” 

the question is short. the sky is dark, 

but clear. the hard shape you carry

in your chest pocket—now, there are 

moments you forget it’s there.