Tears slipped quietly from his eyes under the rain. The thunder hid his ache, the night had taken his actuality.
He was alone that night, and every night, he was a ghost from a far past.
He breathed inside a gust of anger, jealousy, and hatred. His lover passed, he followed his heart and discovered his spring.
Winter is slow. At night, from my window, I observe him flying across the empty square in a constant search for his absent lover.

Artwork by ts.givens