She sat alone in front of the window,
gazing out the ajar window.
The clouds above shower down,
for sometimes,
the sun cries as well.

Outside, the rain drips down from the gray sky—
There she sat
by the window
eyes always outward,
falling past the ajar window,
past the pigeon house,
into the sky that sometimes disappeared.

The rain streaks down the closed windows, slowly, painfully—
Sometimes,
she would rise from her red wood chair,
her bones creaking,
as she hobbled around for a cup of tea,
peering at the tea leaves swirling in the tea,
lost in thought as the tea leaves lost themselves in the sea.

The rain drips from the window ledge, gravity is too strong, they can’t resist—
On sunny days,
the pigeons from next door would rise
and she would look outside
at the silver wings rising into the wind,
settling on top of the roofs,
the ruffling feathers that sat on top of the roof.
she would wonder what the inhabitants of the sky felt like,
she would sit down, wonder how it felt, to feel the wind,
to brave the skies. And she wondered if it would be lonely,
flying in the silver clouds.

Outside, the raindrops hit the cement.
They quietly plod down the road.
Some of them ask each other
why something feels
missing,
but in unison, they shrug their shoulders,
and continue their journey.