Rainwater

When I woke up last morning,

there was water on my floor.

It had come seeping through the balcony, water and muddy remains of the tiny bonsai,

the old cigar, it’s ashes intact,

the torn wrapper of my last gift to you,

the ink of your favourite pen, yes, the expensive fountain.

Water and the remains of your paper notes,

your little thoughts, tiny quotes,

the strap of your rubber slippers,

with its spongy noise, intact.

Three hours in the day,

Three hours of the night,

it took me to wash away the rubble,

the water and it’s contents. 

Every second of my day,

Every minute of the night,

didn’t suffice to wash away memories,

the sweet memories and your moments. 

When I woke up today,

there was no water,

only the cold, dry floor,

no memories, no moments,

and the freezing thoughts

of your cold, dry heart.