Maybe it's the symphony of melancholia or the utter radiance of agony and anguish. But when I see you standing there, still as the quiet night soaked in the rain of despair, I rush to you in frenzy of emotions and bad decisions and hand over my battered umbrella to you. I turn away. Hands in my coat pocket as I walk away, aching and wishing that you'll call out my name. I know just how you'll sound, like the songs of the broken sounds. And it'll beckon to my own soul. I'll be wise to ignore its call. But like the blasted fool that I am, I'll answer with a smile on my face.
© Mae