Romanticizing rain is something
I happened to always refuse.
Rather, I remained as a bystander
to how it always found its place
in rhythms, quills, paintbrushes
and people's reminiscent muse,
or in resonating with every unfallen teardrop
as a grieving soul silently frays.
Then why did today's afternoon drizzle
evoke thoughts I'm supposed to betray?
Why did last night's sudden storm
nettle the void obscured in fret?
The very void that has buried much more
than what it loses everyday;
memories that birthed a heartbroken love,
debatably labelled as "regret".
When I have never associated myself
or my emotions with nature's brilliant ways,
why has it chosen to embrace me
and empathize with my unsettling pain?
Is it because the last remaining way out
of the rubbles of our mutual disgrace,
is to retrace every precarious step of yours
mimicking the unpredictability of rain?
The clouds growl with their thundering scowl
and remind me of the depth of your promises.
The lightning splits the cascading canvas
and sparks endless anecdotes of our tale.
A tale - where we try to stay afar
pained from each other until one of us notices,
that it's worth knotting an already knotted bond
yet again, because "maybe this time, we won't fail."
Well then, is this the time we fail?
For the rain seems ever so eloquent
in showing that its uncertain arrival is why
your constant "come and go" now makes sense.
Yet I pine for you, I pine for the clouded sky,
regardless of destructive or pleasant,
but dare I ask you as I ask the erratic downpour -
Is this your anger, or your sheer indifference?