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The rain is a curious thing.
It drips on my window
and calls my name,
though I never respond.
So it'll seep through the seal
and evaporate into a cold brume,
hoping to be inhaled
so it may coat my lungs,
chilling my skin to gooseflesh.
But I close my mouth
and hold my breath.
It condenses into wet droplets instead,
trickling down
the inside of my window.
The rain is crying,
because it knows it will die soon,
and it simply covets
an embodiment of security.
I am crying now,
because I am lonely.
The rain is lonely.
But the rain is a curious thing.
Curiosity may have killed the cat,
but curiosity and loneliness
they go hand in hand.
It's loneliness that tells the rain
to drip on my window,
and it's curiosity that leads it inside
without my consent.
The rain and I have that in common.
We share an Achilles heel.
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