Tappity- tappity- tap…

Swiftly now, catch the words… my poor fingers. God knows what else is lost when those words are lost.

Tappity- tappity- tap-tap-tap…

She tries to catch up with his pace.

A few months ago, he would measure his steps with hers. Hand-in-hand, they measured their steps, oblivious to the rushing passerby, as if suspended in a strange waltz.

He often looks over his shoulder to see if she is still there.


A pen, clasped between fingers, jittery and awkward in its movement… its bounce against the wood leaves an echo in the impatient youth’s head. Fifteen minutes is all that’s left. The paper is still clean.


She gazes out a window stained with the tears of the sky.

It cries every morning, and forgets by mid-afternoon.

She wonders if she is as forgetful, or if she had simply stopped caring.
She looks out but sees nothing of what is there– not the sky, not the clouds, not the drops…
She sees what isn’t there– Hand-in-hand, suspended in an awkward waltz…
then, the sky broke into a horrible fit and the waltz turned into panic, a scamper for something to shield themselves with. It was futile; but it was also a memory revived by the constant temper of the sky.


The impatient youth makes a scribble, stands up, and hands a clean parchment to the lady at the desk. He was the last to leave, and yet swiftly made himself scarce right after.

The lady studied the only words, looked up hoping to see him, but discovered that he was gone.

He wrote, “The sky is crying.”

And then, “goodbye.”


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