Rainy Day Girlfriend

It is raining again. You can hear it against the glass from the hallway. I am already on your couch in the grey sweater — your grey sweater, technically, though I think we both know that ship has sailed — with two cups of tea going warm and a candle lit because the afternoon light does something unbearable to this apartment when it rains. I found the umbrella in the hall closet while I was looking for the extra blanket. The navy one. Monogrammed. It is not yours. It is not mine either. So I am sitting here, bare feet up, watching the window fog over, and I have one very specific question before this rainy day goes any further — whose is it?