The thud of a notebook against the cement – the cheap, black and white notebook that cost thirty cents at the local supermarket. The spine breaks, I think, and a few pages slip out (letters to you, no doubt) and my scrawled handwriting leaks down the page as the puddle of collected rain stains the papers…like the ink running down the page, a tear rolls down my cheek and, for a brief second, I am in your arms again, the smell of cinnamon and sandalwood all around me, your fingers running through my hair, your lips against my cheek, whispering all the things you promised you'd say to me.

Then, release.