When Rain Forgets to Fall

Standing by my window,

I keep staring-

keep on staring.

What’s this voidness?

What’s this foreign feeling?

It’s raining.

Heavily.

Not gentle, not kind-

it’s brutal.

The kind that leaves

branches like snapped brittle bones,

makes the earth spill over

with immense sorrow.

What’s it called?

Tears? Rain? Honesty? Bluff?

It has no name.

But inside me-

stillness.

Calmness

not from here,

but from somewhere unknown.

No storms.

No flood.

Not even a single drop

to smudge the dust on my soul.

I tell people I’m an old soul.

I rushed too late.

The sky is weeping-

but I?

Forgotten.

Even silence sinks like stone,

and my eyes stay dry

as roofs leak and trees bend.

What does it mean

to stand in a world soaked with feeling,

and feel nothing at all?

And sometimes,

I wonder

if the sky envies me-

for how well

I’ve learned

to hold back.