I used to like cold rains at this time of the night. I don't anymore. It stirs up the emotions that are now dead to me.
I glance into this empty glass trying hard to find the answers, yet remaining indifferent to my dripping wet shirt. Or so I thought. It's hard to escape this sharp cold when it keeps reminding me of the warmth I felt when I hold her hands. When you can't keep the promises you blindly made, it comes back like a plague you can't run away from.
Maybe I don't need to find the answer. Maybe I just need someone to listen to. Maybe this empty glass is that someone. I wonder how many stories it has drank up. I wonder how it's still standing after all it has seen all. You can't but marvel at its surviving skills. The one that survived to tell every story.