My weather was dark efficiently.

Now it lifts by small percentages,

decimal shifts no one else would bother to read.

I don’t audit the worst anymore.

That’s our secret breach of protocol.

You’re the best variable i was never allowed to graph.

you won’t stay printed in my sky, fine.

Then let the memory of you do the work:

Two brushstrokes layered until the light learns our names,

Until a passerby says, "nice palette", and walks on.

Love fades like signage in rain.

But signage leaves a ghost where it hung.

I’ll keep that outline. I'll keep your shape

pressed under the eyelid.

Bright enough to navigate by.

If the future arrives with its usual clipboard,

i’ll be busy with eyes closed,

tracking a wingbeat just left of the sun,

pretending it’s a bird, not a fact.

I’ll file it under weather.

You’ll read the code.

Everyone else will say, “nice sky today."