I wake up, draw the curtains, and there, falling diagonally, is sane rain.
The spiraling tale of the barely eaten lobster. The napkin in the salad. The misplaced fork on the table. A nearly empty bottle of wine.
“Would you say your soul resides in your hair?”
In her eyes and in that cool water, he was cool.
Handing her the rose, he says: “It’s black though.”
Stifling a sob and a tear from running down her cheek, Lila asked, “Your people. My people. What or who are these?”
Why was he now, in this reverie, choosing to remember of past times, past places and of aspirations now only a shout into the void.