Shimmering drops still 
Clinging, dripping down 
the window still 
After the rain has ceased. 
Several streaks still lined 
On skin from striken eyes traced down, after 
the heart has cried it’s last. 
Solitary, swivelling leaf
Fluttering through the silence, 
Grit hung in the wind,
When a storm has come to calm. 
Sharp sniffs, suffering breath,
punctuated gasps of air,
Into a quaking spirit,
After its rush and still. 
In a minute of silence
and a second of thought
a memory flickers through, then fades,
After a moment of suspended noesis. 
Is it but only, an extrapolation?
Or brief contentment in this state?
By the window still, on a rainy day
From the bitter aftertaste
of that cup of coffee 
I drank in haste?


PS: I really have no idea what made me compose this bit, I think I don’t understand the muse that brought this. Yet I feel it’s some inarticulate feeling I’m still to uncover…?

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