what's in the weather that seems to predict the future?

The shadow of your face hangs densely on my fingers.

I caress an invisible cheek and remember

the ink black bed we used to sleep in,

where I would wonder if I could take space

among the glittering trophies on your shelf.

I can’t recall the word to describe it,

maybe stagnant. Yes, today my room is stagnant

once again. I didn’t even notice the rain outside.

You used to tell me how the droplets fell

from the heavens, for me, from God himself.

Past my balcony, clouds pass by,

Floating on one side of my window to the other.

They look so still, so stable, yet they’re somehow moving,

and eventually get replaced by another:

The end of the days I spent with you.

The trembling light, and the grey afternoon

hang gently upon the cheek that you kissed.

Come, tell me how the clouds break down

and dissipate just for me. I wince, half asleep.

The shadow melts into the rain; the sky has a blue hue.