Drummer.

And the noise doesn't deafen anyone. No one hears, really. She still plays even now. Even tonight. When the raindrops that reflect the neon lights of downtown land on her face and her drums, she still plays. It's too cold, she thinks but plays on. There really isn't anything else to say. She doesn't know anyone. It's too cold, she says to no one in particular. But her voice isn't heard. No one hears, really. And she wonder when the snow will start to fall but it's early October and that shouldn't happen for another few months should it? The raindrops are blue and green and red and yellow and purple and indigo and she wants to build a rainbow with them but they smash into tiny drops on her black shoes when she imagines them.
She still plays. No one hears her, but they leave money for her. Where did she come from, they ask but do not really care. Get out of the rain, they tell her but do not know that she really has nowhere to go. They don't know when she last slept under an actual roof and actually she doesn't know either, now that she thinks about it. It's too cold to worry about sleeping and she won't sleep but maybe she will. Maybe, she thinks. Maybe in a few days when I sleep she says to no one in particular. But will she? She doesn't know and she asks but no one answers. And she plays.
She still plays her drum and she screams at the rain but it explodes into blue and green and red and yellow and purple and indigo and it doesn't hear.
It's too cold to listen and she wishes it would snow. And she plays.

---------------------------

Is it a story or a poem? I don't really know. Maybe it's both.

Love,
Kalinka.