There are days of constant rain
like when we listened both
and there will be more of those,
I shall listen on my own,
the sound of it, the countless drops,
a persistent background river.
There are days of constant dripping,
reminding me of our silence,
those will be there,
more days of constant pain,
the memory of constant rain,
the sound of it. The shiver.
And every drop carries your name,
each one a bullit sent to hurt.
Those are days of endless gunshots
till the last ones tick away.
Cold the air then, back to silence,
still remaining guilt and quiver.