Sometimes when it rains,
I hear your footsteps in the silver streams,
Each drop a whispered name against the glass,
The dusk folds us like old parchment,
Fragile maps of breath and shadow.
I keep the window open,
Let the night soak through my skin,
Till every bone becomes a tuning fork
For memories that never learned to fade.
Come morning, the world smells of moss and loss,
Yet somewhere in the dripping quiet
A single chord still lingers—
Soft as forgiveness,
Persistent as rain.