"And only the winter night can be seen in my eyes.
It is - the fear of gateways, where you're going away"
(from one song)
The rain made the night glossy and noisy. It seems there is not a single corner of the city where it couldn't be heard: it rustles on roof tiles, whispers something to crowns of trees by a hundred voices at once, dabbles in water-pipes, taps on window-sills, splatters in ditches, bubbles on the paving-stones. The night breathes out the darkness and the moisture on the city, hazing lane by lane. The street lightning makes it look even darker and deeper. And this old lamp can't cope with the darkness at all; the light flowing through its misted glass is just enough for two. I mean, for me and you. Though I know well how you can glare, how hostilely your eyes can gleam from under the bristling eyeslashes-sabers. And my smile - my only defense - is getting less confident and more miserable. Eeeeeh... that is not serious, is that? You're at it again: thought up a hurt for yourself, a guilt for me... How you do like harassing me. How tired I am as it is.
Oh, and the question is why the heck have we been still together?...
The angry glint of unfamiliar eyes becomes some... defenseless. Suddenly your hand slippes from mine, you takes a step out of the shimmering circle of light and dives in the mist rustling by rain. I stand near the lamp - keep silent and expect you to turn back. You are going away without turning, clattering heels expressly hastily - and still expect me to call you.
The rain is visibly rising. Drops cling to the eaves and fall down-down-down one after the other...
... one of them slithered down the bridge of my nose, making me shrug off a dream roundly. The storm had thrown up the window yet and now was bursting into the room like into its home. Ahem... Just if you put a bed so close to the window - you never know for sure, what will exactly wake you: the sun in the morning or a pail of rain in the middle of the night. I shut the casement crossly, the rain's pattering on the window-pane protestingly and spattering it with big dribbles in a moment. The eased curtains drooped on the window-sill. After wakening things got even worse. If dreams grow so insolent that crash in the reality without any warning - what will happen to us next?...
I wipe raindrops from my face pensively; they are strangely... warm.
Smells of the wet leafage, wet grass, wet soil, ... even wet asphalt (oh, I didn't think that it smells like something else but its normal "nothing") mixed in the room. Raindrop by raindrop the storm's leaving dopey Curtain Road, fulgurating at parting. Four houses crowded together a semicircle, goggled dazedly and scared a little with yellow squares of eyes. Cars chase bright traces of headlights on the wet asphalt. The sky bursted into thunderous which covered all the other sounds for a moment, even a steady rumble of engines. All but one: the clattering of heels on the wet pavement. That, from my dream.
The sound of your retreating footsteps has still haunted me.
I closed the window late: some dank chill managed to penetrate into my room.
On that day when you had gone - the whole city wept you.
The whole city in my window.