It rained heavily that day. Dripping wet, I had had enough. Stepped in, got some warmth, sipped at the dark brew which kept me sane. What is sanity? Comfort in the moment. Slipping into the whims. I was indoors, and it rained outside, all night. It rained as it never had, the best it could do. I was indoors, the best I could do.
It rained through the season. It never stopped. I didn’t speak to the rain. It didn’t speak to me either. I wrote out poetry, kept warm on my bed, trudged to the kitchen and back. Comfortable in my pajamas which knew the daytime. They didn’t know the rain. Nothing I owned knew the rain. Except, perhaps, my thoughts. My dreams. My words which flowed out and craved to be out and about. I stopped by the door, watching it pour. I neither understood it nor did I try.
It has been many seasons, and the rain has not stopped. Every morning, it blinds the sun. Every evening, it guides the wind through. It is still as beautiful, as virgin, as silly as it could be. We talk when we can, unsure of whether it still makes sense. I come from sunshine, but always read about the clouds. Poetry does not need sense. It speaks of the sunlit thunderstorm. We tickle our sensibilities. We just let it be, and we let it flow. I walk out into the rain on a lazy afternoon, tempted, but rush back in, the fear of the cold too great to behold.
I am made for the rain. The rain is made for me. Yet I stand by the door, shuffling my feet. A rare uncertainty keeping me on the edge. It rains as it always will. With a certain strength, with a certain grace. It rains with a set jaw and a steady gaze, not a care in the world. Why do I care so?