A quiet day of contemplation. Memories hitting me like hot flashes.

Just me and my thoughts, and the dripping of water nearby. Friday prayers have the men rushing about, while a lone sweeper cleans the road. Locks tumbling in the winds, and rickety gates creaking. Pretend ghouls.

There is little to no traffic, and the gaping possibility of an entire day. I hear too many sounds when I'm home alone. That's my cue to call up K.

It's rained again last night, and just because I have found love, doesn't mean the poetry must end.