House Poet 🌱

The rain drums a slow rhythm on the tin roof, a sound I used to find comforting. Today, it serves only as a backdrop for my quiet ache. Each drop seems to carry a memory, sinking into the soft earth—or perhaps into me.

The world outside is a blur of muted greens and greys, reminiscent of the photos we took on that last, unexpected trip. I trace the condensation on the windowpane, forming a vague outline of your face that quickly melts away.

There’s a space on the couch where you would sit, a silence where your laughter should be, and a chill in the air that no blanket can warm. The smell of damp earth and the distant rumble of thunder remind me of you, a closeness that feels miles away, lost somewhere between the clouds and the ground.

And the rain keeps falling, a steady, mournful hum that matches the beat of my own heart as I miss the missing piece.