• Charlotte Eriksson

The Sweetest Rain


This morning I woke up to the sound of white rain

shattering on my window.

The raindrops kept falling like the sweetest music,

leaving tears on the glass,

which is what music does to me

most of the time.

but silence too. and rain.


I’m living with your letter, and I’m growing a ritual in reading one line every morning,

or every time I think I’m forgetting you.

and I’m still not sure why I do that because there’s nothing more I wish for than to forget you.

To erase you from my daily habits and not see you in everything I do.

To not feel your hands on my skin

in the morning

and not hear your words

at night

but still I cling to what you gave me

and taught me,

made me,

and I am still sorry.


So I woke up early to the sound of rain and bought an umbrella by the man at the corner next to the coffee shop.

But there was a homeless man

on the other side of the street

and he seemed sad too,

sadder than me,

so I gave him my umbrella because he didn’t have one

and he smiled at me

with realness in his eyes

like you used to do

and I’d forgotten what that felt like,

looked like,

and it was nice to feel appreciated again,

for a while.


There was a lonely bartender last night

and I told him stories about the sound of train stations

where no train arrives.

But he must have thought me lonelier than him

because he kept saying “drinks on me”

and I would never argue with someone who spends his days pouring drinks to wandering souls, eager to find someone who might listen

and might not care

but that’s not the point

and at least he seemed to enjoy the company

of me

because he smiled and answered and told me things too

and it was nice to just sit there and enjoy the simple pleasure of a conversation,

with someone I didn’t know, because I like the way strangers look at me.

They make me sure, of myself and other things, and I speak freer and louder and I don’t try to hide my excitement for life

or sadness because of love

and I haven’t made any mistakes yet, for them,

to them,

or in the life I wish to live.


Anyway,

I’m living with your letter and there was a lonely bartender last night

and I might or might not have shown it to him

and he might or might not have thought it was fiction

because by the end of another drink he said he’d read my book

and if I knew I wouldn’t have told him

my stories

or showed him

my letter

because I wish for strangers and clean slates

and this god damn bartender knew every single piece of identity I ever had

and so I asked for another drink and he kept saying “drinks on me” and we didn’t stop until we both had forgotten about the lack of our strangeness

and I wish to find a way to strangeness even in the morning

when the spinning stops.


But there is no strangeness.

Only the sound of white rain

playing sweet music on my window,

leaving tears on the glass,

which is what music does to me

most of the time

but silence too. and rain.

and I guess that’s enough for now.

Until the smell of you vanishes from my skin,

that will be enough for now.


// from my book Another Vagabond Lost To Love

Read more about the book here >>>

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