Every Time It Rains, I Remember You

This morning I woke up to the sound of white rain
shattering on my window,
and 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.

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
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
taught me
made me
and I am still sorry.

And 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 spend 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,
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 god damn 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 stopped.

But there’s 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 vanish from my skin,
that will be enough for now.