We might call them
easy-to-hang-on feelings
or forms of regret
or crushes
or something else entirely
like how I call them
passing.

From hour to hour,
from day to day,
like clouds,
they manifest
in predictive
patterns and shapes;
but, no duck.

In the sky,
there’s no cover
for lovers,
there’s no milk
for apple pie;
but, perhaps,
enough water

to call them
hard-to-swallow-
but-not-impossible feelings,
or thoughts that run,
or what happens when
one of us says
to the other:

“I’m leaving.”