Pouring. Yet again. Curled up and watched the first droplets dash themselves fervently against the glass. Further. Further.

The lights are low. The locks are broken. Father’s got a battered golf club beside his pillow and in his car. And I, I tap my fingers across the keyboard, humming melancholy tunes to myself, thinking of your wistful azure eyes.

Clock ticking. Rain whispering. Thoughts racing. Can’t hear much else.

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