I sit on a lousy chair gazing at the patter of the rains
drenching my flowers in the garden
The evening tea has turned cold
With the thunder that strikes every few hours.
I try to read a book kept on the brown table
But my least interested hands flip the pages swiftly to the backcover.
It is where his name scribbled still peep through
And his touch that kisses my skin.
The old memory still remembers him
Most of the part that belongs to him.
Disclaimer: The image(s) in the post are taken from Google. I don't claim any of its rights.