An old timepiece

The crisp night air enters through a narrow slit between the window and the ledge. Filling this room with an aroma only described as fresh night air. And sometimes you can almost sense the stars on this aroma. Adding an almost sweet essence.

The air is also filled with the gentle rhythm of rain falling against the rooftop. Tapping out the metre to this nights poem. The beats are determined by how many liquid drops fall and upon where they lay. If you listen closely you can hear the gentle rain drops falling through the pine tree. Slowly slipping from one bough to the next. Starting from the top and working their way down to the grass. Almost as if they were caught in a slalom course.

And adding to this gentle mixture is the rising and falling of my chest in the rhythm with the tick of an old timepiece. Steadying to this tick, is the slow progressive beat of my heart. And as I lay here, breathing in the stars, listening to the rain, I cannot help but think of you. Think of what you might be doing, whether you think of me, and perhaps...just perhaps, if you too are breathing in this celestial mixture.