This morning I woke up to the sound of white rain
shattering on my window.
The raindrops kept falling like the sweetest music
leaving tears on the glass,
which is what music does to me, most of the time,
but silence too. and rain.

I’m living with your letter and I’m growing a ritual in reading one line every morning,
or every time I think I’m forgetting you,
and I’m still not sure why I do that because there’s nothing more I wish for than to forget you.
To erase you from my daily habits and not see you in everything I do.
To not feel your hands on my skin
in the morning
and not hear your words
at night
but still I cling to what you gave me and taught me,
made me,
and I am still sorry.
So I woke up early to the sound of rain and bought an umbrella by the man at the corner next to the coffee shop.
But there was a homeless man
on the other side of the street
and he seemed sad too,
sadder than me,
so I gave him my umbrella because he didn’t have one and he smiled at me
with realness in his eyes
like you used to do
and I’d forgotten what that felt like,
looked like,
and it was nice to feel appreciated again,
for a while.

There was a lonely bartender last night
and I told him stories about the sound of train stations
where no train arrives,
but he must have thought me lonelier than him
because he kept saying “drinks on me”
and I would never argue with someone who spends his days pouring drinks to wandering souls, eager to find someone who might listen and might not care
but that’s not the point
and at least he seemed to enjoy the company
of me
because he smiled and answered and told me things too
and it was nice to just sit there and enjoy the simple pleasure of a conversation,
with someone I didn’t know, because I like the way strangers look at me.
They make me sure, of myself and other things, and I speak freer and louder and I don’t try to hide my excitement for life
or sadness because of love
and I haven’t made any mistakes yet, for them,
to them,
or in the life I wish to live.

Anyway,
I’m living with your letter and there was a lonely bartender last night and I might or might not have shown it to him
and he might or might not have thought it was fiction
because by the end of another drink he said he’d read my book
and if I knew I wouldn’t have told him
my stories
or showed him
my letter
because I wish for strangers and clean slates
and this ******* bartender knew every single piece of identity I ever had
and so I asked for another drink and he kept saying “drinks on me” and we didn’t stop until we both had forgotten about the lack of our strangeness
and I wish to find a way to strangeness even in the morning
when the spinning has stops.

But there is no strangeness.
Only the sound of white rain
playing sweet music on my window,
leaving tears on the glass,
which is what music does to me
most of the time
but silence too. and rain.
and I guess that’s enough for now.
Until the smell of you vanishes from my skin, that will be enough for now.