sunday sorrow

raindrops slide down the skylight above me.
slow and graceful, spontaneous branching
rivers caressing the cold, hard glass.
my mind sees the window crying softly, as i am.
i hate waking alone, especially on a sunday.
december's cold wind whips intermittently,
as the rain alternates between liquid and solid;
a melodrama of wind and water, shifting intensity.
my ears are filled with small, circular foam pads
delivering delicate sensory kisses to my ear drums.
music disguising the loud snarls and deep breathing
of the sleeping elephant just beneath where i lay.
my hand holds a bright, yellow #2 pencil - no eraser
trying to study and instead, expressing my heartache.
i'd rather hold the lover that no longer wants me,
than wrap my tiny fingers around a lead, wooden stick.
like the softly gathered drops on the window above me
love silently slipped from my heart slow and spontaneous.
my tiny bones are now the cold, hard, breakable glass.
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