For hours the rain falls.
When we go to bed,
the sound of million water drops
hitting glass or stone
in its familiarity
and only when it stops,
we wake up.
I awake when your breathing
is not there, and when the babies
slept in other rooms,
I could hear them silently live
through walls and corridors.
Waiting for their butterfly breathings
made my ears super sonar equipment.
Since then, years went by.
You sigh downstairs in the living room,
I detect coming rain a day ahead,
and I still hear butterflies crying.