Adrift In Rain Puddles

Darkness is darkest beyond the wan street lights, and yet the rain still falls through it. With every gust the acacia trembles, sways its branches imploringly, its leaves pulled down, torn, randomly strewn on the puddles below. My fingertips ache and falter on these guitar frets, but my head sings on and on: "maybe the old song can bring back the old times," as torn pieces of the card she sent me drift about in the puddles below.