The clatter of forks echoes
against the tin roof, rain
drumming a solitary tune.
Eyes from across the street
catch the flicker of my hands,
wrapping remnants of dinner
in a quiet ritual.

At the window, the gaze lingers,
in the reflection, a question
unspoken, yet understood.
Regret, like the rain, falls softly,
dissolving into the earth,
a part of growth, unseen
until the sun breaks through.