His endless fall of tears slip through the space between her delicate glass fingers, drop by drop falling on to the white cushion
A chirping tune swims through the moss covered wall
He remembers that tune, that tune he fell for so very quickly
He wonders how this tune always kept the same floral melody but would adjust its harmony to converse with his thoughts, those thoughts that would try to sew through to his speech, never showing thread, only a thin needle
His tears have now formed a puddle, but foolishly he does not pay the slightest attention to this ever so growing puddle
She whispers "pour yourself a drink you will feel better"
He listens and soon he has a drink in his left hand
He takes a sip, his lips burn, the liquid feels like grains of sand to his throat
The drink has now dampened his thoughts, the threads are now wet, the fibers are separating
The tears still fall drop by drop but now he is oblivious to the tears
His room is now an aquarium of sorrow and the floral tune is muffled by the salt water
The girl hopes to dilute the growing salt water with her bitter desert alcohol but soon they will both drown in their concoction of tears and liquor