Thief

The cloud cover bursts,
beading your cheek with opaque drops,
matting the hair to your almond skin, as

my thoughts melt down
to a wax impression of
warm streetlights and cold summer gin,

when, sure of your engagement with family vacation,
I broke open the front lock to your house,
crept in, and

stole a
black shirt that smells of the curve of your shoulder -
a token of nights without sleeping

and sad songs on
the car radio. I wear it
sometimes, watching the traffic creep by in the rain.