The sound of water pushing
its way downstream deafens
as it crashes against rock,
muting our screaming.
We are turbulent
like the water raging beyond our door.
I hear nothing from you
after the word goodbye;
your sound now the subtle
click of a lock when the door closes.
Outside, rain smashes on concrete —
rupturing into little droplets,
my face a cascading waterfall.
As you once knocked on my door
hoping to be invited in,
the pitter-patter of rain
knocks on my windowpane,
lulls me to sleep.
I wake to the ping of our bathroom tap.
It resonates down our lonely hallway
and in my head.
A reminder you’re not in bed tonight.
You’re not here to fix the faucet.
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