A drop.
Adrift in the emptiness
A brief ripple in time, a sudden slip in the echo of a frozen voice.

Two drops.
Shattering the mirror in which I stand, just tearing apart the mild instances of a vanished smile.

Three drops.
A tree drops its frail desire, a tear caught by the sick wind that seeks the wings of a featherless, impervious soul.
Fed her least sour hours, a minute prelude to a broken second amidst in the silence, the slowest motion of a notion unknown.

Four drops.
A decimated memory.
Rain is pouring down.