iyan
petrichor
awoke me from my slumber, the pattering of rain on my window panes
as i subdued yet another day to my widowed pain
the branches of sorrow growing thick into my brain
as it grew fruitful, nourished by the very same rain.
as the drops of crystal hit the soil
reminiscence emerges and my blood starts to boil
every attempt at saving has done nothing but foil
i can’t accept the truth, ahead lies my life of toil
the sweet sound of his phantom tenor
as i try to distinguish between love and sober
my nostrils pick up the scent of petrichor
even if the room reeks of liquor
my mind calms at the absence of thunder
the world will never be kind, whether prey or hunter
i watch the rain trickle into the ground before i go back to my slumber
as it seeps to my husband, where he lies six feet under.