This white, cloudy light
shining through my window,
caressing a small framed picture
of you
holding my hand
holding a flower.
Just weeks ago.
This silence, fading memory of the rain
has overflown my bedroom,
empty.
As if my reality was nothing
but a broken paintbrush,
a mandolin, waiting to be loved again,
a memory.
You knew how much I loved
drinking tea
with you and a poetry book
in our favorite spot
in our favorite cafe ...