There's No Cure To Love-Sickness
It rained the colour of ash today.
He has not seen him for the 25th day and their paths have not crossed since he last elbowed him in the ribs.
The raindrops slid lazily down the windowpane.
He traced the pathway with his finger, and it was cold, and chilly, and piercing.
He didn't call or text. He said he was busy with this job and that job, and the loneliness is eating him away.
Have I disappeared from his heart?
The thunder resounded somewhere close. He jolted in surprise.
Are we sharing the same sight and sound? The flash of lightning that tore the sky in half, the roll of thunder that made the ground tremble; are you witnessing this?
The darkening clouds are a smoke of insecurity and solitude combined. It refused to clear with only simple thoughts of him.
There was a sharp knock at the door.
The visitor that comes with every bad weather.
Today I see him, when the rain is the colour of ash and the raindrops fall with certain grace.
Soaked to the bone, he was there on the lonely doorstep. He came just to tell him that, yes, they are both witnesses to the same love.