the pitter-patter of painstakingly small puddles plummet across my window pane
the long trail they leave behind as delicate as a swallow’s spine
crooked and eerie
I trace the lines with my finger, calculating the distance in centimeters
the drops combine.
if the windows were eyes
they’d be drowning in their own tears
although no one has ever really died of sadness before.
my mother is trying to prove me wrong
I’m on my way to visit her.
I bought her flowers to put in the vase
I bought her last time
I brought her chocolates to sweeten her tastes
and a clown to cheer her misery
when he released a hundred doves
she only stared vacantly at his face
her eyes tracing his gloppy red mouth.
like a black hole.