rain falls on a cobbled lane

Standing quite alone near the doorway of a rented room above a quiet, cobbled lane adjacent to the canal in Bruges you watched the rain trickle down a cracked window pane behind which nothing moved except the wisp of smoke rising from a French cigarette held lightly between two fingers of your left hand, trembling almost imperceptibly. Your right hand rested on the glass, pressed against its cold glaze, unable - perhaps unwilling - to wave as you watched her go.

(Sat listening to Indian Summer by Arabesk and these words came. No idea what that's all about!)