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Rain on Grafton Street (Marcella Boccia)
Rain on Grafton Street (Marcella Boccia)
The cobblestones glisten like bitten glass,silver-tongued under the hush of rain.Footsteps dissolve into the murmur of ghosts,soft echoes swallowed by puddles of light.A busker hums something half-remembered,his chords unraveling into the wet dusk,as the city exhales—a slow, smoke-laced sigh between the drops.Neon drips from the bones of old shopfronts,liquor-bright and flickering,while lovers lean into the wind,honey-lit in the amber of streetlamps,their whispers drowning in the hush.I stand still, spine against stone,watching the river of strangers flow past,each face a story I'll never read,each glance a door left half-open.The rain runs down my wrists,cold as confession,soft as the hands I no longer hold.
The cobblestones glisten like bitten glass,silver-tongued under the hush of rain.Footsteps dissolve into the murmur of ghosts,soft echoes swallowed by puddles of light.A busker hums something half-remembered,his chords unraveling into the wet dusk,as the city exhales—a slow, smoke-laced sigh between the drops.Neon drips from the bones of old shopfronts,liquor-bright and flickering,while lovers lean into the wind,honey-lit in the amber of streetlamps,their whispers drowning in the hush.I stand still, spine against stone,watching the river of strangers flow past,each face a story I'll never read,each glance a door left half-open.The rain runs down my wrists,cold as confession,soft as the hands I no longer hold.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIARain on Grafton Street (Marcella Boccia)
The cobblestones glisten like bitten glass,silver-tongued under the hush of rain.Footsteps dissolve into the murmur of ghosts,soft echoes swallowed by puddles of light.A busker hums something half-remembered,his chords unraveling into the wet dusk,as the city exhales—a slow, smoke-laced sigh between the drops.Neon drips from the bones of old shopfronts,liquor-bright and flickering,while lovers lean into the wind,honey-lit in the amber of streetlamps,their whispers drowning in the hush.I stand still, spine against stone,watching the river of strangers flow past,each face a story I'll never read,each glance a door left half-open.The rain runs down my wrists,cold as confession,soft as the hands I no longer hold.
The cobblestones glisten like bitten glass,silver-tongued under the hush of rain.Footsteps dissolve into the murmur of ghosts,soft echoes swallowed by puddles of light.A busker hums something half-remembered,his chords unraveling into the wet dusk,as the city exhales—a slow, smoke-laced sigh between the drops.Neon drips from the bones of old shopfronts,liquor-bright and flickering,while lovers lean into the wind,honey-lit in the amber of streetlamps,their whispers drowning in the hush.I stand still, spine against stone,watching the river of strangers flow past,each face a story I'll never read,each glance a door left half-open.The rain runs down my wrists,cold as confession,soft as the hands I no longer hold.