Night of the last rain of winter.

Backseat casual conversations, 
Were just that; words of random. 
Theories of the nonexistent,
Were just that; absurd possibilities. 
Falls, and it falls till the sun wakes. 
Every trace and every fingerprint,
Gone is all that I breathed for. 
Lay me down on a bed
Of twenty-six roses and a daisy,
As I mourn for the end of this
Cold, cold catastrophe. 
Rest, and I shall rest in the 
absence of all that could have been. 
-U.J