I’m sorry that you woke to a cold drizzle; 5 a.m. is too early and I know you prefer the sun. I tried to be warm, but no one believed me. Maybe tomorrow. I saw broken bottles and split stones and the ends of half-smoked cigarettes, brown from Wednesday’s rain. I thought I saw you in a puddle in the alley, but it wasn’t you. At the corner of Park and Belmont, there is a garden of orange and purple daisies that I’ve never noticed. In the adjacent lot next to Black Hand, the shade forms a triangle at the corner of this eggshell picnic table. I look up and listen to leaves and wind whisper. You are the green patch of grass and the dragonfly teasing with a dance before floating away… Here, the plants are bathed in slants of sunlight. Vines hold on for life to chain and picket fences, rusted and chipping. A great tree stands guard against the blue horizon, as if staring head on would be all too much. It is 7:06. The clouds are lilac and white and baby pink and the powder sky is reflected in the windows. You are the setting sun. Twenty minutes ago, it was warmer, brighter. I left my jacket inside. For a moment, the city lights outshone the stars, but I always knew they were there. Where did this distance come from? You and I, us and them. Still, the idea is fantastic. They tell me not to walk alone at night. But I love being alone, and you are the night.