The rain is still falling in this forgotten alley, and I haven’t found a way to stop the blizzard inside my head.
A woman stopped me on the way back, under the rain, begging for pity, and God, she told me about her dead husband. And I thought of you, and how your voice would always soothe those who long for safe havens.
But the rain is starting to fall even harder, and the woman left with my umbrella. The one that you knitted out of sentences. The one that you used to save me from myself.
I don’t mind getting wet. As long as your warmth could shelter those who need it the most.
I’ll wait under the rain.