He woke up with the coquí’s song stuck in his throat,
tongue dry like sun-bleached coral,
heart still marinating in the vinegar of her leaving.

She left in a whirlwind—
a slap of perfume, heels on cracked tile,
a suitcase full of sundresses and excuses.
Said she needed “clarity.” Said the island air was “too thick with you.”

He didn’t chase her.
Didn’t call.
Didn’t write.
Just sat on the porch with a sweating Medalla,
watching the mango tree drop what wasn’t meant to stay.

But oh—she begged.
Voicemails like spilled mojito: sweet, sticky,
a little too late.
“I miss your mouth,” she said.
“I miss the way you said my name in storms.”
He almost answered.

Almost.

Now?
Now he’s dancing with shadows in the plaza,
shirt open, salt-kissed and unbothered,
laughing like someone who once survived a hurricane
and decided not to rebuild.

She’s somewhere north,
posting filtered pictures of café con leche
and quoting Rumi like it’s a lifeline.
And him?
He’s still in Puerto Rico,
still deliciously alone,
still seasoning his own damn story—
no chaser needed.