Edited

[rain_in_spade]

I drive through traffic in a grey sky,
there is paper in my wastepaper bin
like yesterday.
Lately, time is like the mild cold between seasons.
There is nothing to do but continue,
keep driving every morning and every night.
I know,
I know, like the taut strings of an optimistic violin
anticipate the symphony.
But the conversations have faded into the past
and now is the long silence of waiting, in the hum drum.
This time between the last adventure and the next
feels so wasted,
and alone.