William Hromada

Rain falls

Rain falls

like forgotten promises—

soft at first,

then insistent,

drumming on the roof

until the whole house

leans into its rhythm.

I watch it streak the window,

each drop a tiny ghost

of yesterday’s argument,

or the laugh we never finished.

Outside, the streetlamp flickers—

a wet halo,

a bruise of light.

Inside, silence

grows louder than thunder.