An open letter

To someone who won't ever be reading this,

Probably storms have gone back to their homes by now and cuddling the broken dreams, while slow rainfalls are caressing my little grasses on their loss. Probably it's easier for them now, to get drunk in the rain, to rub their back against the soft petrichor, to smile at the far standing light-posts.
You know what, I remember utterly. Each tiny detail of the "qafirana". Of the time, that seemed an under-blanket on a snowy winter evening.