Everyone cries over their own

Everyone cries over their own — maybe with someone, two alone, if there's someone… but more often that someone is the rushing wind. An owl is howling in the crack. A sad song has been struck up by the hinges — a weeping violin. Raindrops on the sill, feebly, share something from the past. Each — its own. To the windows. And trickling, as if down cheeks, down, and then — down the drainpipes, onto the asphalt and the passers-by… alike as two little drops. Everyone goes their own way and silently cries over their own.