She was an indifferent rain. Too cold for naked running in, or it could have been I was the coward. We all have pain, but she was best at bringing it to bed. I passed that place the other day. It's pretty now, not like before. I've told too many lies for her. It was a thing that has an end, an end already back that way. The ground is dry already. It is a thing you sober miss like whiskey slipping darknesses. There is a feeling free that wants to be constrained, like pulling slowly from a bucket, a length of iron chain. When I am gone, she told me, know that I will not be. Goddam, not she's a liar too. She's gone, she's gone. Not in the waitress smile, nor in the grass, nor in the trees; I have no hope she smiles down at me and she dries too soon from memory. She had to go she had to leave and I, here, am the coward. We all have pain, but she was best at bringing it to bed. She took me in, she held me down, she pressed me into her singing cries. She was better than the coward me, and braver too. She had to leave away like dry lightening.