November Rain

The rain taps its quiet morse against the glass, spelling out words we never learned to say. November has swallowed the last of the light, and we sit in the dark it left behind — your hand on mine like a question neither of us needs to answer.

The radiator hums. The tea grows cold. Somewhere a gutter overflows with autumn. I want to tell you that this is enough — this dim room, this steady rain, your breathing soft beside me like a promise made in sleep.