Laying on my bed in my jersey knit sheets while listening to the rain fall outside of my house. It taps against the roof and the leaves on the trees. Occasionally, a drop will find its way to my window and meet the glass with a slap.

"There is no singing. There is no swinging, too.
There is no dancing. There is no missing you.
There is no screaming. There is no listening, too.
There is no scheming. There is no missing you."

As bad as it sounds, if I could erase the past eight months... I would.