Prompted by flowing tears,
you confess that you are
drenched.

Drenched,
As in
you’re sure that you are aquatic,
because you breathe in,
and your lungs flood with water.

You might as well have been born in water,
because no memory in your mind is dry.
You must wring them out,
like you wring your hands,
if you have any desire to relive
the kiss of the sun on your shoulders.

The sky ceased being blue
and dark blue
and periwinkle and every shade in-between.
Water’s lack of color has blinded you
to the potential nature’s ceiling has, its ability to
paint life’s mood-fitting backdrop.

So let me drawn the curtains for you,
and I promise that you will know when the rain has ended.
We will hear its absence,
you and I,
clasping our hands in the comfort of the dark.