The summer has slipped away like your hand from mine. The dark clouds have taken over the sky, and they haven’t stopped weeping since morning.
Their tears fall in eloquence, turning the streets into rivers, filling everything. I realize I’m not so different. I, too, am spilling over since morning.
I pause for a moment, staring into a puddle, and for a split second, I see you there—the outline of your face ripples across the surface. I look away before I drown.
It is not sharp like a knife, as they all say. It’s slow, heavy, like this rain. It doesn’t tear you apart instantly, but it erases you, until you are not sure what you are anymore. I feel invisible, yet exposed than ever, as though the storm is stripping me naked.
As I begin to walk, I realize you left me here. And you became the storm itself. But here I am still alive, still marching on.
I wonder if this is really about you at all. Maybe it’s about me. Maybe it’s proof that I survived what should have killed me.
One day, when the storm is over, I’ll look into a puddle and see only myself.
But for now, it is raining like it’s the end of the world.
And I have to keep going like it’s the end of the world.