My Gentle Rain

It is almost like you are a monsoon,
knocking at the door of my soul,
with gusts of wind,
sounds of thunder,
and a cool breeze
sweeping over the moist,
humid summer days of my past,
causing this tangled mess, I deem emotions
inside the hollow parts of my chest
to slowly unwind,
as my passions and desires
cloister indoors,
tucked snug into the seams of an old leather armchair,
peering over a wooden banister of regret
of love lost,
and of love gained,
to look admiringly at the rain
splashing on the windows,
and slowly dripping
from the splintered pane.

(perhaps compelled by secret longings to be soaked in the residue of silver droplets,
as I dance in your late night showers).

So I implore
the heavens
for a perpetual downpour,
that the rain may caress me,
spill upon my head with liquid drops of affection,
and serenade my heart
a cloudy lullaby,
as it still pools on my lonely sidewalk,
and makes running pools in every delicate touch
of my gutter.

And for
the tears of nature to appear
again and again
in Resurgent shades of blue,
and in less abashed hues,
to soak all the colors
of the voided spaces in-between,
and to erase the darker shades of lonely grey
that chalk the dry and dusty plight of haze,
long settled in every memory
and in the measure of every droughtful day,
to fill the vacuum of my waiting skies
with you,
my gentle rain.

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