Pouring Rains, Remorse and Regrets

There’s a faint knock on my door, loud thunders subsiding it in the empty house. Is it the girl I met in the bar yesterday? Or could be the lady who lives on the 7th floor who passes mischievous smiles every time we bump into the lift.

I adjust my hair, give a quick visit to the dusty mirror and open the door. There you stand; hair cut shorter, a new nose ring, a tattoo over the neck I can’t decipher, 3 years of heartbreak wearing clothes of colors my eyes love, drenched in rain. “Can I come in?” “Well, why not,” I say and rush to get you a towel.

I see the water dripping from the clothes stuck tight to your body and go back in time when my lips paraded every inch of those curves. You notice and smile. “umm, coffee?” My cover-ups have become bad. “Black, no sugar,” you say. “I remember,” I murmur. “What were you doing out there. It’s pouring.” You come closer and hold my hand and say “It’s raining regret and remorse outside, so I thought it’s high time I come home.” “It’s not much of a home anymore, anyway,” I blurt it out.

You come closer and rest your face on my shoulders. Damn, is it the water or tears that making my shirt damp, I wonder? “What is it going to take for you to love me again,” you ask. “All my heart,” I say. “So you like someone else now?” You ask with your eyes raining remorse and regret. “No, I am still collecting the pieces of it. From places you met me. In the places you left me.” You open your bag and take out the picture mug I gave you. “We could start by pouring coffee in this, it might spill out a piece or two of your heart,” you always have your way with words. “Coffee it is then,” I say.

While brewing coffee, I wonder who gave you the right to knock on my door in the rain, knock on my heart in the rain. I take a peek and see that face, the other tattoo above the waist, those lips, those. I guess I gave you the right, as always, surely I did.


Photo by Muhammad Rifki Adiyanto from Pexels

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