Ink And Reason

Tonight, the rain is an old scribe, 
scribbling my longing onto the windows, 
with crooked letters of water, 
like a thought that flees toward you 
but stumbles into forever.

The wine in my glass is a sea trapped in crystal, 
red as that sunset on the concrete wall, 
when our words, like broken birds, 
fluttered over wounds, over time, over the past.

You were there, with eyes like dawn-lit lilies, 
over which the clouds unraveled in silence, 
while I drank in your life, 
your pain, your hope, and all that remains.

We spun our wounds into threads of light, 
on that wall, beneath a sun that fell like a ripened fruit,
too heavy for its branch. 
Now the rain sings, but I hear only your name.

I long for you, like nature longs for peace, 
and I feel like a leaf, pressed into the present. 
In the glass, the wine is silent. In me, you remain. 
And the rain, like a scribe, writes me upon the world.