Rain is our weather.
Its intensity;
Its wetness.
The gentle music it plays
While the trees gently sway,
And light is prismatic color.
Its presence clings to veins;
Lingering, dripping
A beat that keeps skipping
As it travels down my skin.
I wish it would wash you away.
But it is no scent,
No memory’s touch.
It is mere wishes and glances,
A thought that entrances;
A home inside this hollow.
 
There it sleeps,
And there it weeps.
The rain merely drenches
My heart in the trenches.
I choke within the passion.
How it accentuates your words.
We listen to its pattering
While ceasing our chattering.
The silence sparks a flame.
Do me a kindness
And plague me with blindness,
Make me forget your name.
But silence leads me on.  
 
Solitary in dampness,
It threatens the feeling,
Swelling this precious ink
That holds the only thing I have.
I just don’t want to think.
My liquid companion,
My words are much like you.
They cleanse, but burn
And hardly return
As they soak into this tortured heart.
You are simply impervious.
 
Now I am lost within gravity.
Trails of me travel down the wall,
Leaving my blood, my truth,  
A rain-tattered youth;
It steals a last refrain:
Our weather soaks the soaring feather.
Our weather is the rain.

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Cory Garcia
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