Wrong Hour

It came at dusk.

Not four o'clock.

The light was already soft,

already giving up.

The bounce.

Different rhythm.

Not the familiar pattern

I'd learned to wait for.

Not them.

Someone else

playing on the court

I've never seen,

doing something ordinary

I'd made extraordinary.

The ball hit asphalt.

Hit it again.

Again.

Each bounce was

a small betrayal.

I realized then

how much I'd been waiting.

Not just listening.

Waiting.

For that specific sound.

That specific time.

That specific person

I didn't know

but had come to need.

This wasn't them.

This was just a ball.

Just someone shooting hoops

as the sun went gray.

But I'd wanted it to be

the old one.

The one from four o'clock.

The one I'd memorized.

I closed the window.

The sound continued anyway,

muffled but still there,

still wrong,

still carrying the weight

of what I'd lost

without ever having it.