First September. (poem)

And it's raining outside.
7:20 am and I've been awake the night before.
I'm locked in my room;
Curtains drawn.
I hear the thunder,
The sound of rain falling on the grass, the asphalt, the roof above me.
I could dissolve in it right now.
The rain murmurs now,
It tells me I don't belong here.
I never did.
The state of my room like the shadowy crime scene,
Little light through the curtains makes it appear haunted.
Everything bathed in a mixture of shadow and slight light.
Breathing becomes conscious as I inhale the air that still reeks of him.
No, my dear, he still hasn't left.
Will he ever?

A bird sings.
I am much too disconnected with nature to know which bird it is.
It sounds indifferent.
It sounds oblivious to the world's unhappiness and contentment.
Oh, the thunder returns! It doesn't hush them.
The birds sound indifferent still.
Don't tell me, little bird, that I project myself onto you.
I do not.
I have my own worries.

The thunder sounds like the passion that is almost forgotten,
The passion that flowed through me so easily.
So easily.
Oh! But it burned me good.
I am much too afraid to touch it now.
It's only a fire that looks virtuous from afar.
It is not my territory anymore.
I do not belong there.
I do not belong there.
But I also do not belong here.
I never did.