Pitter patter of the raindrops,
Drumming on the window sill.
The drops hugging the glass,
Rolling down and vanishing,
Leaving a bleary world behind,
A fogged glass of forgotten memories.
The tear stained cheeks of her,
The soft lashes on wet eyes,
Little diamonds glistening,
In the lap of her eyelids, pure.
And the pitter patter rhythm,
Mimicking the staccato of her heart.
The feeling of nearness of the one lost.
Maybe signaling the return of
Days of beautiful blushing bliss.
The petrichor of wet grounds,
And rain soaked fern leaves
Forming a green carpet over which,
A pair of feet trod cautiously.
Afraid to fall on the slippery slope,
But undaunted by her fears,
As the undergrowth grows thick,
The brambles catching her dress,
Yet she moves on, stumbling, fumbling,
Her wet locks clinging to her face,
The wind whipping away the tears and rain.
Sweet and salty all mixed together.
Only the pitter patter on the leaves,
Guiding her sleepless eyes home.
The futile search for the lost one,
Has ended but there are miles to go,
Endless nooks and caverns to explore.
The world's darkness beckoning,
Into unfathomable depths to discover,
The treasure house of memories.
And the pitter patter silences it all.