the floating liquid pearls
from the Moon clouds--
and--
the smell of Sunday.
the window, a shield from the rain
yet I Feel it in me
as I drip out--Drop, by
drop.
through a cord, Chopin walks into my ears
and sits--
never begins but has been playing,
as droplets become piano keys.
far away, a chime Echoes
from a spiderweb of
iron, under a velvet sky
full of ghosts.
little golden moons line the shops,
and their moonlight blends into the fallen water,
and paints the Street
with an aroma of rose.
the dull click of shoes on cobblestone
crescendos
to where I linger--
i turn, and he takes me by the hand.
each step, a note--
we move with the Rain.
composing a piece already written,
already played.
in joins the rose, and the
watercolor moons--
two fragments of stars
dancing underneath the rest.
but I slip; fade,
a halfstep removed,
and like the cobweb clouds outside my window,
my mind rolls on.
