I still crane my neck when I pass your street.

The sun came back today and

the whole time I looked for you in the heat but

you weren’t there.

I didn’t know what that was about.

So I kept looking through sand and the

taste of salt on your skin and especially through

that stagnant fog that sits on blacktop streets but

you weren’t there, either.

I didn’t know what that was about.

Then I consulted the space between spring and

summer and I asked if she had seen you.

And she told me to wait because I was

too soon, you weren’t there.

I didn’t know what that was about.

I went to my library and I looked through all the books I know

and I peered through the spaces between the letters

to find you but

you weren’t there and

I didn’t know what that was about.

I had another idea because I wasn’t ready to stop

so I turned on my car and let the air conditioning run.

I let it breeze against my face and I stayed

until my contacts were dry but

you weren’t there.

I start to drive and as I pass

your street and when I see a car like yours

my neck is an owl’s.

This feels suddenly familiar

and I know what that’s about because I’ve been

doing it all along.