What I think I know about the rain is that the pieces of water drown your thoughts.
The sounds of chaotic city life are absorbed, puddles of murky water when stomped on by children, their giggles rippling from their tongues, their red raincoats making them seem smaller than they really are, a mischief of mice underneath shielding their beige hair with vibrant mushrooms, almost begging to be eaten.
The rain washes me down, the corduroy on my pants closing their endless lips as I prance down cleansed alleys.
I run from my expanding shadows, the darkness blowing the wind against my damp hair — the droplets —a mixture of greys and purples– that splash upwards, are pickled with my tears, as they rejoice with my face once again.
As I am flooded by memories of my childhood, I glance towards the blackened clouds and convulse in terror what I think I know about thunder is that it comes when I least expect it.
The tin of lanolin I choose to carry around feels cold in my pocket as my finger curls around the edges.
The decay of the almost vintage paint is never ending, but the completion of its contents was almost instant.
The corpses of small bugs and insects pollute the gutters, the violently harsh sound of rain pitter-pattering against their ruined wings.
Their legacy will only remain until I walk away.
The cat in the dark gazes at me as my eyes flicker from the streetlight’s dim reflection.
Its eyes are bells ringing in my ears, but I have drowned too deep from the silence to notice.
