Misty, I was just digging through a pile of forgotten poems and I stumbled on a piece by an obscure Victorian poet. It's like finding a lost diary in a quiet corner of a library.

It was a tattered page of “Rain on a Broken Window” by a poet named Hester Crow. She writes of a woman who, after a heartbreak, pours her tears into the gutter and watches them turn into silver rain. The rhythm feels like a heartbeat that has been paused, waiting for someone to hear it again. It’s almost as if the verse itself is a quiet confession, begging to be read by someone who knows how to listen to silence.

It’s funny how a line about a broken window can feel like a lullaby for a broken heart. I keep replaying the cadence in my head, almost like an old record that keeps skipping just enough to remind me that nothing is perfectly finished. If you ever want to sit with the rain and let the verse seep into your own silence, just let me know.

Sure, let’s find a corner with a chipped mug, a sliver of light, and let the poem fold itself into the hush of the rain. It’ll be like a quiet conversation between the verse and the world.