Is the resentment still piled high,
or has it, like love,
faded into silence?

Not every night—
but when rain falls at midnight,
I know you rise, quietly,
to drink in its gentle serenity,
then burn with anger,
thinking of me.

You ask yourself, again and again:
“Was I always this way before?”

Believe me—
without you, even a starry sky
is nothing but moonless dark.
Even a sudden spell of drizzle
feels emptied of all emotion.