PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The small pecking of each drop as it falls from the heavens and onto
my not-so-clean bedroom window, the window my mother is always telling
me needs a good washing, is almost obnoxious, but I can't pull myself away
because there is something incredibly comforting in the repetition of the tack, tack, tack.

I can hear you on the other line, pouring out the feelings I had
once been so intrigued by, knowing I should cherish this moment
before it drowns into what used to be, because soon your tired voice
will leave me hanging on its last words, left to fill in the blanks
with whatever I would hope for you to say, but can't.

You're telling tales of camping on Wall Street with the people you
say know you, are you, feel how you feel. I can't imagine what you
mean but the rain is falling heavier now and its balancing my sinking
heart, adding a smile to my voice that wasn't intended to be there. But
I think your pleased and its like a vocal hug when you laugh through the rain.

I can see you now, outside my window in the rain.
Your dancing with a cheap black phone from the apartment
you like more than our house, a place you used to call home.
The rain speckles your freckled face and I puzzle over how your signature
cigarette is still burning through the wet that appears to surround you.

His voice is heard in the distance, almost as if from a film playing in the background
but I know better than to think that as you call back to him and I
call back to the rain thats still there, waiting for me, showering the window
just as it had been all day. You have that tone of voice when you speak again and
I my mind races to reel you in, trap you, anything to make you stay.
Yet I can only muster the will to mumble something incoherent about
loneliness, and you don't hear.

I'm still watching the rain watching you and now him watching you,
But now he's walking away, growing dimmer with every step until
you're alone,and I'm alone, but we're together. You smile widely but
it looks all too forced and the rain is quickening and thickening, but
you simply stand and talk. Its only then that I am aware of our conversation.

My hand is out the window now and your gracing me with sweet goodbyes
but not a mention of the next call. So I ask. I crave to know your next
visit but you're dismissive and ignore me as if focused on my rain because
you don't know when the next day you'll be sober enough to call home
will come, the next time you're seeing things straight.

My eye is caught in the window again with the rain and your fake face,
and the longer I watch you the more faded you become until I'm
squinting out my dirty window, desperately rubbing my sleeve along the
glass, wishing I had cleaned it when my mother had scolded me days before.

I try to reason with your ever thickening head but you've had enough and sooner than
I ever wanted to admit the world is void of your voice, not
knowing when it'll be heard again, and the street is only
full of the rain, and I am only left with the soft
drone of the dial tone and the small pecking
of each drop as my cell phone falls from
my hand. I know I should pick it
up, but I can't pull myself away
because there is something
incredibly comforting in
the repetition of the
tack, tack, tack.