I saw summer leaving, this last year.
He passed me on our street.
He tried to look past me, through me,
Anywhere but into eyes where he could see blame
Or pleading to stay.
He looked like a little boy that afternoon,
torn jeans, faded t-shirt, short shock of blond hair
and bare feet on a bike,
coasting down the hill
with the wind caressing his childhood tan.
It's hard to tell when you see him, sometimes;
he has so many different faces, from day to day.
But I knew it was him, that time--
Because he wouldn't look at me.