Is the resentment still piled high,
or has it, like love,
faded into silence?
Not every night—
but when rain falls at midnight,
I know you rise, quietly,
to drink in its gentle serenity,
then burn with anger,
thinking of me.
You ask yourself, again and again:
“Was I always this way before?”
Believe me—
without you, even a starry sky
is nothing but moonless dark.
Even a sudden spell of drizzle
feels emptied of all emotion.
Sep 24, 2025
Sep 24, 2025 at 5:56 PM UTC
Is the resentment still piled high,
or has it, like love,
faded into silence?
Not every night—
but when rain falls at midnight,
I know you rise, quietly,
to drink in its gentle serenity,
then burn with anger,
thinking of me.
You ask yourself, again and again:
“Was I always this way before?”
Believe me—
without you, even a starry sky
is nothing but moonless dark.
Even a sudden spell of drizzle
feels emptied of all emotion.
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