The sky hums in hush-toned hymns,
a low lullaby spilled from clouded lips,
each droplet a note pressed into the pavement,
a whispered memory stitched in silver.
Windows shiver with ghost-sung verses,
curtains breathing with the rhythm of sorrow,
and the wind—a cello bow against the bones of trees—
tunes the ache beneath the leaves.
My heart is a rooftop, dented with echoes,
each raindrop tapping a forgotten name.
Love trickles down the spine of gutters,
flooding the roots of things I tried to bury.
A sigh in the storm drapes over the hills,
a velvet hush, soft as moth wings on skin,
and puddles bloom like mirrored portals,
reflecting versions of us that never unraveled.
I walk through the hush, barefoot and blinking,
as the world dissolves in a watercolor blur,
clouds unraveling like old lullabies,
and time dripping slower beneath the storm’s spell.
A single leaf spins a slow waltz in the wind,
a dancer suspended in the music of mourning,
and somewhere, in the hush between thunder,
I hear the song you never finished singing.
The rain writes elegies in rivulets,
soft verses sliding down windowpane spines,
and though the storm may pass without promise,
I press my ear to the dusk,
and still, I listen.
A gentle reflection on loss, memory, and the quiet things that linger in the rain.