November Rain

The first drop fell

like her voice

soft enough to be mistaken for silence,

yet heavy enough to bruise the air.

The streets darkened,

lamplight bleeding in slow circles,

as if the city, too,

was holding its breath for her.

The rain didn’t rush.

It lingered on my shoulders,

slid down my fingers,

the way her presence

once slipped into my days

without knocking,

without asking,

just staying until I forgot

how to be alone.

The November rain

never violent,

never sudden,

just the quiet persistence

that seeps into every unguarded place

and leaves you colder

when it’s gone.

The rain reminds of her warmth.

And when the clouds cleared,

the air still smelled like her,

I tried to walk away ,

but found clinging

to the hem of my breath.