What happens? What happens on these awfully quiet days? The days that resound so painfully with silence? With the speechless conversations that last far too long and permeate far too deep?
With the tears that leave me depleted?
This is such a pleasant morning. This coffee. This cigarette. This curb.
But where is She? Where is She?
The streets bear no cars. The coffee shop holds no customers.
And then it starts to rain. Then I get wet.