Cold mist hugging transparent glass,

icy drops of water leaving prominent trails of their footsteps

as they descend down my bedroom window.

They swerve this way and that, perhaps panicking

about the steepness of the descent.

I see your fingerprints on the glass, slowly dissipating

because the rain clouds spit drops of water at them,

trying to conceal their shape before I see them.

I take it as mockery of me, that I could seem so stupid as to believe

that those marks from your hands could be just ordinary smudges on the glass.

And I look again. Two entire prints of those soft, warm hands that used to hold mine.

The raindrops could not touch these;

They formed an ellipse around your handprints, trying to touch them, to destroy them,

but the promise of that treat evades those menacing raindrops.

And I cry, for in some ways you are still here, trying to reach me.

The tears of joyful sadness burn on my cheeks, redden my eyes, rattle my shoulders

as I watch your soul caress my rain spattered window.

—April. 10, 2010