We hold our pain

We hold our pain while walking in the rain. When nobody’s around we can hear the sounds: the percussion of the patter, the rumble and the rattle of the gutters in the rain; the jingle and the jangle of the harness of the dog, who trudges in the snow, to the snow foot crunches. The January wind braces faces to the blow. Tears don’t matter when the years flow past. Traces of the faces in the solitude of paces in the darkness glow, hopeful lights before everyone awakens. Steam rises from the coffee, cinnamon embraces. All that matters is the intersection of time and timelessness and the cinnamon aftertaste of black coffee.