And the mist that collides with your face in the morning has turned to rain.
It pelts the skin on your cheek with such force and it feels almost
But it's not anger.
There is no malice behind the screams it is only
There is desperation streaming in the way that there is light through my window during sunrise.
There is desperation in the quick clack-clack-clacking of my keys as I transcribe my consciousness onto paper with feverish intent.
There is heat on my forehead and cheeks and my heart is pacing slighty more than I am comfortable with but there is no sweat to relieve the burn in my brain and my face.
And the mist that collided with your face in the morning now collides with mine because you are no longer there to block it.
There is rain on me and the ghost of you.