while rain water kept dripping on the glass window,
depriving the room of daylight, I kept peering,
for no reason, at the ceiling.
Signs of you were in every corner:
that small picture frame which kept your smile,
those magazines you often asked me
to buy,
that lipstick-written graffiti you wrote on the wall,
and the laptop full of logs
of our chat.
Today, at 36 degrees centigrade, I've got a box
I can't get myself to fill up.