The soft rain streaks the windshield.
Makes of it a lens through which the world is a vivid, unclear watercolor.
Today the further shore is further.
I cannot see from here to there.
Why I am blinded by the storm.
Someone, somewhere, perhaps thinks of me.
This very moment now they think
Sarah…dot dot dot – I cannot get a read on the thought:
love, unlove.
My meter has gone dead; no longer reads.
Thoughts once symbiotic; the cord has been cut –
deliberate, sharp, and quick.
The wound not cauterized: feel the bleed.