Supine on a mid-Manhattan rooftop, watching raindrops fall from the cloudy morning sky.

You covered your hair in the beginning,

and masked your voice an octave lower, as though

you’d expect me to forget the burning sunrise

and the aria coming in on ocean waves.

You have always been a better actor

than you were a liar—no,

that doesn’t make sense,

but did any of “us” make sense that night?

Does an overhead covering that leaves gaps for rain

to fall through make sense? Does a city sky

that never gets dark, but somehow lights up again,

make sense?