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Because it is
almost 3am
the rain
no longer matters.

But still it drifts,
yellow-tinged, through
the street light below.

The small, resilient
tongues of last night`s fire
flicker around the room

turning Monets` poppies
blood-orange,
etching shadows
on unfamiliar walls.

Then, the late collage
of sound;
The low burr
of a taxi,
a sharp loneliness
of footsteps.

Your breathing’s ebb
and flow,
reminding me
you are a stranger

and what we have been
shapes who we are.

The past
gapes like a wound,
as I watch
the sky, the city
and all of the night
reflected in
a single raindrop.