Indie

Rain taps on my window, each drop a tiny drum. I trace shadows on the glass, counting the ghosts of what I’ve become. The streets shimmer with reflections, mirroring the puddles inside me. I inhale the scent of wet asphalt, and let the city bleed into the corners of my mind. I write letters I’ll never send, dreams I’ll never chase, yet in the rhythm of the rain, I find a strange kind of peace, a quiet song for the wandering soul