Second Chance

Rain braids the night
into silver threads.

At the far end of Harvard Bridge
a figure stands beneath the dim
halo of a streetlight,
that old familiar Red Sox cap
tilted low against the rain.

For a moment I hesitate,
almost turn around.

Once before,
I mistook fear for clarity,
let our story loosen from my hands
like a balloon slipping skyward,
vanishing into distant clouds.

Wind moves through the street
carrying the quiet debris of memory:
a kiss caught in a stairwell,
coffee cooling on a windowsill,
the echo of footsteps
walking away too soon.

I remember the gravity of that choice.
How absence grows its own architecture,
walls built from regret,
doors that only open inward.

I step forward.
Each footfall
breaks the thin ice of hesitation,
shortens the careful distance
I once mistook for safety.

Running now,
I see the familiar shape
of his smile waiting beneath the rain,
a harbor light,
steady,
unafraid,
warm.

There are a thousand things
I want to say,
things I didn't say then.

They all dissolve
in the quiet space between breaths.
I let the truth arrive simply,
like warmth returning
to cold hands.

Rain hides my tears,
and a small, impossible miracle
stands in the glow
beneath a Boston streetlight.

If you love someone, set them free.
You know the rest.

Thank you for coming back.