Nothing new falls on your hands
in the same way nothing old ever
surpasses beginnings. In stillness
this cold forces hands into pockets
never meant to house such warmth.
Your fingers dance on their own
in these hidden worlds, fishes dancing
to an internal rhythm. And when
what has helped you has helped enough
it leaves silently. Drop by drop this
world makes less of you, not violently
but with the gentleness of understanding
When you shake the waters off your
body, only then do you notice what
has been taken, and what will never be
returned. This pavement reflects traffic
lights into the black, and the skies are
indistinguishable from eye level. As if
the rain falls only for you, not in ritual
nor cleansing but out of sympathy,
for the pain you unintentionally carry,
and the memories you set onto comets
to be shipped into oblivion. A little rain
comes, here and there, never when you
ask for it, and never when you are lost,
but when it is simply time to let go.
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